Not Nearly As Young
by persephone-hunt
Summary: Driven by worry, since a known dark wizard has escaped from Azkaban, and a secret wish to escape his life as a nation, Arthur Kirkland decides to become Hogwarts' newest professor. ON HIATUS
1. Chapter 1:An Old Friend

**AN: Despite how much I hate them, I find that, with this story, author's notes are extremely necessary. I will try to make them as short as possible; I want to let the story speak for itself. **

**Warnings: First off, I am an American writing about (mostly) British characters in a British setting; there will likely be mistakes regarding British culture and I will be using the American spelling. This story does contain OCs, such as Wales and Scotland. (All I know about Welsh and Scottish culture, I learned from the internet; some of it may be incorrect.) There is a possibility of others. There is also a possibility of random non-canonical pairings, because sometimes characters go beyond the author and make up their own minds. I try to stay as true to **_**Prisoner of Azkaban**_** as possible, but, as anyone with common sense would know, adding characters, events, and settings to a story tend to make it less canon. **

_**Enjoy**_**! **

...

_Chapter One:_ _An Old Friend_

Arthur Kirkland pushed open the massive door with one hand. The wood splintered under his fingers, unlike the last time he forced this door open. The once freshly polished oak had felt smooth and hard below his hand. It swelled with the pride of its duty, barely budging for anyone's entrance except for its owner's. It used to fill the stairwell with the smell of the raging forest. Now, the softening wood reeked of age and felt like the bark of the tree it began life as. Arthur easily pushed his door aside.

Past the doorframe, the extravagant walls were lined with portraits of old friends. All of which turned their attention to the guest. Most of the framed faces smiled. A few greeted the nation with a kind "Hello", which he returned with a respectful nod. Two of the paintings scoffed and turned back to their separate business and one searched Arthur's grave face for recognition.

"Arthur! It's been too long," Albus Dumbledore stood behind his grandeur desk, wearing a calm smile. His blue eyes, weary and continuously bright, glinted through his half moon spectacles. A smile hid behind Albus's long, silver beard. He skipped around the clutter of papers on the desktop and past the radiant phoenix, toward Arthur. Before pulling the man into a gracious hug, Albus shook his wrinkled hands out of periwinkle sleeves.

"Albus," Arthur laughed, breaking the hug. He further ruffled his blond hair and crinkled his pasture-green eyes. Grasping tight to his brown overcoat, which he had taken off upon entering the castle, Arthur gawked at his friend. "The years have been kind to you."

"Ah," When Albus shook his head, his white hair seemed to sparkle in the light of the floating candles above. Arthur noticed the wrinkles revealed by the man's wide smile, despite the cover of the beard. "But they have been kinder to you, my friend." Albus gestured for his guest to sit down, before returning to his seat behind the desk. Arthur obliged. The phoenix rustled its orange feathered head into the crook of his wing. "I'm afraid age is finally catching up to me. My legs are not as fast as they once were; they've grown tired of running."

"Wait a couple thousand years," Arthur joked, straightening his pea-green tie. He raised his eyes to Albus. In contrast with his youthful face, Arthur's worn eyes showed the decades of hardship and war. They looked as if they fought through Hell and trekked the long journey back on several occasions. They twinkled with millions of experiences and shined with immortal wisdom. Then, he smiled. As suddenly as it came, the weariness was replaced by the laughter of all of England's children. "Then you can complain about being old."

"I suppose old age catches up to everyone one day," Albus mused. He leaned forward in his chair and opened the top drawer of his desk to pull out a small silver tin. He placed the container between the two men and closed the drawer. "Some sooner than others. But, as I will always believe, one is never too old to share a couple of sweets with an old friend." Albus opened the tin and took out two hard, yellow balls, wrapped in shiny plastic. "Lemon drop?"

"Of course!"Arthur laughed accepting the treat. He popped it into his mouth and bit down, wincing at the pain, but refusing to stop until the candy broke, much to the amusement of Albus, who chuckled as he sucked on his own. Arthur attempted to keep his mouth closed as he laughed along with his friend. He quickly devoured the small lemon sphere and grinned heartily. A silence fell between the two, as Albus finished his candy.

"Now, Arthur," Albus started, his voice serious. He watched the other man with careful eyes. "I think it's time we focus on the meaning of this visit. I trust you received my owl?"

"Yes, I have," Arthur blinked at the headmaster. "I would _like_ to fully accept the offer you've given me, but, I'm afraid, this is not possible." He waited for a reply that did not come, before continuing. "I believe I can manage this position but I would need certain… privileges. As you know well, I cannot abandon my current post. I can't simply _stop_ being the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland." Arthur almost laughed at this statement.

"I don't expect you to," Albus was nearly shocked. "I understand that you would be taken away from the position at Hogwarts to perform your duty as our country, and I'm willing to allow you whatever privileges you require."

"That's wonderful," Arthur smiled brightly. "Then, I accept! I won't need much. I'll need private quarters to do my paperwork. Oh, and I will have to be dismissed once a month for world meetings. They take about two days, plus travel time. I might also need to be dismissed for emergency meetings or other random requirements my boss dreams up, but that's highly unlikely. There's also my cat. I'd like to bring him along."

Albus smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a persistent knock. Both men, as well as the portraits surrounding them, stared curiously at the door. "Come in," Albus greeted the unseen guest. He stood, followed by Arthur, who nonchalantly reached into the pocket of the overcoat in his hand.

A tall, pale man, wearing robes as dark as his chin-length hair, entered the room. The frown on his thin lips deepened at the site of the headmaster's guest. He audibly sniffed the air with his long, hooked nose and glared with idle curiosity at Arthur, whose cheeks turned slightly pink.

"Severus," Albus's voice was warm. The man in the doorway turned his attention to the headmaster. "What brings you here today?"

Severus Snape glared pointedly at Arthur. "Private matters."

"Ah, Severus, we were actually just finishing up, yes?" Albus asked. Arthur nodded, avoiding the eerie glare of the greasy-haired professor. "But, before you leave Arthur, I would like you to meet our Potions Master, Professor Severus Snape. Severus, this is our new Muggle History teacher, Professor Arthur Kirkland."

Arthur stepped toward Professor Snape with an extended arm. They shook hands, eyeing each other; Arthur smiled wearily and Severus gave an air of indifference.

"A pleasure to meet you," Arthur broke the hand shake and pulled on his coat.

"A pleasure," Severus repeated dryly. He shot a carefully hidden look of worry at the headmaster. Arthur caught this and reached into his coat pocket. His fingers tightened around a long wooden shaft. The room filled with heavy silence for a few odd moments, until Severus glanced back toward Arthur. "Weren't you leaving?"

"Oh, yes, sorry," Arthur's tone failed to be apologetic, but Severus only looked disinterested. He simply watched Arthur, who loosened his grip and pulled his hand from his pocket, refusing to speak until the stranger was gone. Arthur walked toward the door, where he gingerly placed his hand on the knob. A nervous gulp was barely heard by the other two men in the room. Still clutching the dull, golden knob, he turned with eyes shining with immortal wisdom. "Albus." The name slowly drifted between the two friends. He paused for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. "I know what the Ministry isn't telling me... They've been covering it up." The words were heavy and loaded. "I can… _sense_ it. There's danger coming… Albus, whatever happens, keep Hogwarts save. _Keep the students safe_… Especially since the recent escape…"

"Indeed, I understand," Albus agreed solemnly. Severus stared from one colleague to the other with a sudden look of interest. "Unfortunately, I do not think Sirius Black had a fair trial."

"I know," Arthur whispered gravely. "Just promise me that you'll keep them safe."

"You have my word," Albus bowed his head sincerely. Arthur's smile did not reach his distant eyes; eyes, which lurked on the painful past. He stood, hand on the doorknob, staring at his old friend, for a long minute. Then, he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2: Human Friends and a Cat

_Chapter Two: Human Friends and a Cat_

The pounding rain matted Arthur's blond hair, as he weaved between strangers hidden under umbrellas. People hustled past one another, across puddles into taxi cabs or across the slippery pavement into buildings. They emptied and filled the streets as steady as the falling shower, hardly remarking upon the commonplace, dreary weather.

Arthur hurried past a woman, wearing a navy raincoat and matching boots, and her three small children, linked together, one after another like ducklings. The smallest of them stopped short in front of the nation, and stared up with big, blinking blue eyes. The boy tilted his small head under his yellow cap, and pointed up at Arthur, slurring something about "eyebrows". Arthur scowled and grunted before storming around the child into the door beside him.

The light of the small café nearly blinded the nation in comparison to the grayness outside. After a few seconds of bewildered blinking, Arthur noticed that the shop was nearly empty; it was occupied only by a couple quietly holding hands in the back and an unenthusiastic woman with a mildly pretty face behind a cash register to his left. He took off his dripping coat, tossed it on the rack beside the door, and trudged over to an empty table. He slumped into a rickety chair, which, in Arthur's opinion, seemed perfect for a morning of glaring out the window and wishing for the warmth of the sun.

"Crummy weather, isn't it?" The young woman from the counter was now standing next to Arthur. Her white teeth bared into a false grin. He looked up at her and raised a heavy eyebrow. The young woman muffled a sigh and yanked a pencil and small notepad out of her yellowing apron.

"It would be better if I had a cup of tea," he said expressionlessly. She began scribbling onto her little notepad.

After watching her take a very long time to write a very simple word, Arthur smiled mischievously and tore black gloves from his hands; the gloves were so wet and heavy it was like forcefully shedding a second skin. Arthur noticed a steady trickle of water falling from his wet hair and landing on his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at it, and, without a second thought, he thrust his clammy hands into his hair and shook them vigorously. Water sprayed all around him, causing the waitress to gasp. He looked up into her irked face and smiled unapologetically. "The usual."

"Coming right up," she muttered, putting her notepad, now spotted with rain water, back into her pouch. She sighed, bit her tongue, and walked back to the storefront.

Arthur allowed himself a small smile, but it did not last. He resumed his original plan of watching raindrops collide with the glass and race down the wet window. It should be dry; the weatherman guaranteed cloudless skies and warm sunshine. Beach weather, he reported happily, the sunniest day in two weeks of rain. Arthur had dreamed of a walk in the park. Birds were supposed to sing. Merlin was supposed to trot happily beside him, purring by his ankles as he willingly followed his owner, wandering off now and then to chase off a pigeon. He woke up that morning whistling a song he hadn't heard in ages, but was abruptly cut off by the pattering on his bedroom window. That was the last time Arthur would put his faith in a weatherman.

A bell at the front of the shop dinged and, for an instant, the harsh sound of rain was magnified. Still glowering out the window, Arthur heard someone at the front order with a fast Welsh accent "Hello, could I have a cup of black tea and honey?" and the young woman reply sweetly. The feeling of unavoidable dread rose in his chest as he listened to the footsteps become closer. Arthur refused to look away from his pitiful window as he heard the rustle of the man taking off his coat and placing it on the back of the second squeaky, old chair at Arthur's table.

"Hey there, Artie-boy!" A rough hand slapped Arthur's back and gripped his shoulder. Arthur winced and frowned at the hand, which was quickly removed. The Welshman roared with laughter and sunk into the seat across from the British nation. Arthur glared at the man's wicked smile, which stretched across his flawless face. His round nose was planted symmetrically in between his constantly laughing grass-green eyes. His cheeks were slightly pink from the cold, free of any type of blemish. Even his eyebrows were a healthy, normal size. They planted themselves above his eyes expressing every emotion in full force, not unlike Arthur's. However, Arthur noticed that, despite them being on the larger side, the other man's brows were significantly smaller than his own. Arthur's face fell a little more.

He watched the man take a cap off his matted brown hair and place it on the table between them. "What?" His English was mangled with the thick dialect of a Welsh countryman. "No 'hello' for your brother?"

Arthur broke into a short, half-annoyed laugh. He smiled. "What're you doing here, Wills?"

William Hywel Kirkland raised a single well-shaped eyebrow. "Oh, come on, boyo," William complained. "Can't I sit and have some tea with my little brother?"

Arthur raised a thicker brow in response. He smirked and opened his mouth, but closed it again, as the waitress returned. Her friendly smile was directed toward William. "All righty now," she whispered as she placed a plastic brown tray on the edge of the bleached tablecloth. Smile never faltering, she pushed her dark bangs behind her ear and proceeded to place a full teacup in front of both men. With a slight twinkle in her hazel eyes, she placed a bear-shaped jar full of amber liquid in front of William.

"I wasn't sure how much you wanted," she explained, grinning prettily. She nervously wiped her palms on the sides of her royal blue T-shirt, accidently accentuating her figure.

"Lots of honey, love," William winked, causing her to blush. His glaze never left her reddening face. "I like my tea extra sweet."

She giggled and directed a light "Enjoy!" at the older brother before walking off to the front. William watched her hips sway until they were out of sight behind the counter.

"Pretty little thing," William commented as he poured spoonful after spoonful of the thick honey into his tea. "What'd her name tag say? 'Mary'?"

"I hadn't noticed," Arthur said monotonously. He sipped his tea, watching at his brother with a look that closely resembled agitation.

"Sometimes I wonder about you, Artie," the Welshman eyed Arthur, taking a large gulp of his tea. He set the cup on the table and sat back in his squeaking chair. His eyebrows lifted. "Do you enjoy anything at all? You know, besides tea... and silence."

"Of course I do," Arthur snapped, setting his cup down as well. He frowned harshly with his entire face: his mouth turned downward, his eyebrows crawled close, and his eyes were far from amused.

"Oh, that's right!" William laughed heartily. He subconsciously looked around the nearly empty room for someone to agree with him. The mid-aged couple in the rear shared an omelet. "Mary" appeared to have disappeared behind closed wide, silver doors next to the counter. William's gleeful gaze turned back to his brother, without hesitation. "You seem to enjoy the misery of others! How could I forget about that?"

"Oh, just belt up. I do not." Arthur's frown deepened, eyebrows twisting close to each other. He crossed his arms dramatically and glared.

"Oh, come on, boy," William smirked. He sipped his tea, imitating a gentleman, and cocked an eyebrow. "I'm only joking with you!" Arthur continued to glare silently. William's grin widened dumbly for a moment, before faltering. "Don't act like such a child." William fruitlessly searched Arthur's face for any sign of response. He raised one eyebrow, again, and allowed his grin to vanish. "I don't see how what _I_ say matters, anyway." Arthur remained silent, but his expression changed slightly. "You'll just end up alone and miserable by the end of the day. Just how you like it, right?"

"I'll have you know that I have many friends," Arthur declared bitterly. After a short pause, he dropped his eyes to the table and let his voice grow softer. "And Merlin."

"_Human_ friends. And a bloody cat." William raised his brows. Arthur only frowned. The Welsh nation leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. He stared into Arthur's green eyes seriously. "You know why you can't get close to humans. We _both_ know how long they last. Quit living with your head buried in your arse."

"What do you care anyhow?" Arthur demanded hotly. He angrily raised his cup to his lips, spilling hot tea down the side of his hand. Ignoring the mess, he gulped his tea and scorched his throat. "You don't even _like_ me."

William sighed, allowing his eyes to fall down into his tea for a short moment. Like a man who had just suffered a long, hard day arguing with a fool, he sipped it slowly and shook his head.

The two brothers sat in silence, sipping their tea individually. Arthur stared sullenly out the window, occasionally stealing hostile glances at William who watched Arthur with pessimistic curiosity.

"You're really doing this teaching thing, aren't you?" William broke the quiet, ignoring his brother's previous statement. He set his tea down and closely watched Arthur's face change from sour to annoyed amusement. His face contorted into an odd grin that didn't reach his eyes, which were dismally entertained by the truth. A short silence fell behind the two. Then, Arthur snorted.

"And the real reason you're here is revealed!" Arthur announced sarcastically and loudly, attracting the attention of the couple in the back. They stared curiously at the two nations, whispering assumptions to each other. The presumed "Mary" stood by the couple's table, pencil poised over her now-dry notepad, ignoring the outburst. "I knew you didn't just come for a cup of tea. _Despite how wonderfully good the tea is_." Arthur's voice grew louder with the last sentence, which he directed toward the back. He was promptly ignored but it didn't matter; he glared, green eyes challenging, at this brother.

"You're a real arse," William stated as simply and matter-of-factly as small talk about the lousy weather. "I can't see why _anyone_ would want to have tea with you. It's all together unpleasant." He nonchalantly raised his cup to his lips.

"To answer your question," Arthur stubbornly continued, after a peeved sucking of his teeth. He raised a quick, quirky eyebrow and sipped his tea with the slightest defiance in his eyes. "I _will_ be teaching this year." He shot the words at his brother, hiding the slight feeling of foolishness that crept onto him. "History. Muggle History."

"Right," William nodded, all mockery and brotherly joking wiped from his face. He suddenly looked serious, struggling to stay in the present. His eyes were distant, almost worried, and his eyebrows crinkled as this thoughts drew heavier. He sighed and opened his mouth, only to close it with a second sigh. "Right," he repeated quietly.

"What?" Arthur laughed. He felt his cheeks lightly grow hot due to his senseless attitude that he refused to drop. "Are you actually going to miss me?"

"Don't be stupid." William waved off the younger nation. He gulped down the remainder of his tea, ignoring the strange expression that swept across Arthur's face. The younger man blinked as if he had been slapped for the first time in his life. Biting his lip softly, absentmindedly, the Englishman raised his cup to his face, but did not drink. He stared dumbly at his brother, who continued quietly. "It's just that... you've been out of the Wizarding World for so long..." His voice trailed off.

"Don't think I can handle it?" Arthur asked emotionlessly. He placed the cup back on the table and listened to the pitter-patter of the rain on the window. It seemed to be coming heavier now.

"I'm not even sure if you can handle tying your own damn shoes!" he suddenly bellowed. Arthur gawked at the eruption. The nosy couple in the back's whispers grew louder, to an audible murmur, accompanied by frequent stares. Arthur could make-out phrases such as "strange bunch", "too noisy", and "a bit rude". William didn't seem to notice, or simply didn't care. He combed concerned fingers through his hair and continued with growing volume. "What I mean is, you complain about _everything_. _Every God damn thing,_ _Artie_! You are the _least_ welcoming to change on the entire planet! And now you're trying to throw yourself into a world you haven't been a part of in _decades_!"

"Don't you think that you're exaggerating a bit?" Arthur whispered, frantically hoping the other nation would follow the example. He glanced toward the back to see two pairs of curious eyes ogling back. His efforts were a failure; William didn't even seem to hear Arthur's question.

"You know, you'll have to relearn that entire money system!" William declared. Arthur saw the young waitress standing half-way behind the counter, tilting her head to one side like a confused puppy who just heard a whistle. Her brown bangs fell into her eyes, as she took an awkward step forward toward the men. Again, William was oblivious to everything except his rant. "Do you honestly know how many sickles equal a pound? I'm not going to be there to teach you this time, Artie."

"You never taught—"

"And you'll be teaching _kids_, boy," William stared dramatically into Arthur's eyes. His hands now gripped the edge of the table, pulling him toward his brother. Arthur, subconsciously, leaned back in his chair. "_Actual_ _kids_, Artie." William's voice settled at a reasonable tone. His green eyes were grave. "You don't even _like_ kids."

"I do too," Arthur whispered indignantly. He glanced behind William to see that waitress brush her bangs out of her eyes and slowly turn back to her business.

"Since when?" The Welshman released his grip on the table and allowed his hands to further rustle his reddish hair. "Are you going to honestly sit there and tell me that you _like_ Peter?"

"O f course I do," The words stumbled out of Arthur's mouth on impulse. They quietly, slowly settled, suspended, between the two nations. Arthur's face flushed and he waved his hands frantically in front of him, as if to erase the words that he had spoken. Arthur continued hastily. "Well, not exactly. I mean, he's the most annoying _thing_ on this entire planet and his sole purpose is to drive me crazy. He thinks he's some sort of evil mastermind, always following me around with that blasted camera, trying to catch me doing something stupid. And he's so noisy! I don't see how I can actually _enjoy_ his company. But..." Arthur dropped his gaze to the small amount of tea he had left in his glass, before raising them again. He spoke softly and surely. "He's my little brother..."

William froze, searching his brother's face, whose eyes sat under defiant eyebrows, nervously glaring as if accepting an unspoken dare. William fell back into his chair, shaking his head. He pushed his hand back through his mess of hair and peered into Arthur's eyes, shaking his head a second time. "God, you're stupid."

Arthur blinked, allowing his eyebrows to relax. "What?" he stammered blankly. "...Because I don't hate him?"

"No, you stupid boy," William said almost to himself. Arthur continued to blink, not understanding. Then, the Welshman stood and grabbed his hat off the table. He looked down at his little brother. "Whatever, Artie," he grumbled, adjusting the cap on his head. "If you want to teach at this bloody school, go ahead. But you teaching there isn't going to clear things up with that Ministry. And it certainly won't help you catch Black."

"I'm not trying to _catch_ him," Arthur explained, accepting the dropping of the former topic. He sucked down the rest of his drink and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I'm trying to protect the children."

"Right," William struggled to put his coat on properly. The brown sleeve was twisted awkwardly around his left arm. "Black's going straight from Azkaban to Hogwarts." A dull note of sarcasm was hidden in his tone.

"You know just as well as I do why," Arthur folded his arms, watching the Welshman untangle himself in his coat. "Potter's at Hogwarts."

"That's who that twisted Minister told you Black's after," William clarified. He straightened out his coat and slipped his right arm into a sleeve. Arthur looked down, avoiding his brother's gaze. "I just don't  
>think this is a good idea. And it doesn't make a whole lot of sense going there."<p>

Arthur didn't answer. His eyes drifted to the window, where rain splattered against it frequently. He watched the sporadic drops slam against the glass and ran down the window. More and more people trudged through the rain past the window, under umbrellas and hooded coats. None of them stopped to glance inside the small café.

"Well, Alastair will sure be happy." He heard William sigh and his footsteps travel into the storm. Softer footsteps replaced his, becoming louder with each step.

"Will that be all?" A forced cheery voice drifted to Arthur's ear. He slowly looked up into the waitress's hazel eyes and smiled wearily. He stared into the face of every annoyed waitress he'd ever had, watched every waiter's smiles not reach their eyes, saw the hidden dislike buried in their faces. They were always the same. The generic faces were innumerable. Arthur felt ancient. He felt tired.

"Another cup of tea would be wonderful," Arthur watched the girl's face fall slightly at the notion that he would be staying. "And a bagel. There's no use in starving, is there?"

"Coming right up." Her smile disappeared all together. She grabbed William's abandoned cup and left.

"There's one thing he was right about," Arthur whispered, watching her hips sway, with a little more spunk than earlier, as she walked away. He noticed how long and lean her legs were under her black shorts, despite being cut off by a flat sneaker. He pictured her running early this morning, pushing through the rain, while he was only waking up; she ran hard to calm herself before another day of dealing with costumers like him. He sighed, dropping his eyes to the table.

He allowed his mind to wander. It spat out random thoughts and worries like a lottery machine full of losing numbers. He remembered Peter's latest scheme, adapted from his most recent favorite show Candid Camera. He recalled how boisterous Alastair's laugh was as Peter whispered his plan through the elder's thick cloud of cigarette smoke and Quinn's drunken confusion about the whole situation. He remembered nearly breaking his hip and how William didn't discover the camera above the refrigerator until after Arthur fell. Watching the memory in his empty tea cup, Arthur wasn't sure whether to laugh or hold a grudge.

Finally, Arthur forced himself to mull over the other things William had advised. Inevitably, he would entirely forget about his brother's warning. It wouldn't matter soon; a month from tomorrow he would be enjoying a slow train ride into Hogwarts. He would be reintroduced into a world he loved and missed. Most importantly, he would be away from his more than bothersome family.

"Not until I spend a few letters, of course," Arthur reminded himself.

...

**AN: Quick author's note, here. Wow. I actually got a huge response on this story. Thank you all so much. There are officially forty-one people following this story. The reviews are wonderful. I'm almost speechless. I wasn't expecting much of a response at all. I can't get over the fact that other people are enjoying this story as much as I am.**

**Anyway, down to business, I forgot to mention in the warnings on chapter one that there will be cursing. Especially, when Alastair (Scotland) is physically in the story. There is a possibility of mild violence. Be aware of some stereotypes. There won't be any worse than the stereotypes in Hetalia itself. After all, every character is based off of stereotypes. The point is that I'm not intentionally trying to insult anyone and I certainly won't say something like "All Brits can't cook." So if you may be offended by swearing, mild violence, or stereotypes, this may not be the fic for you. You've been warned. **

_**Quick cheat sheet:**_

**William is Wales**

**Alastair is Scotland**

**Quinn is North Ireland **

**Thanks, everyone, for reading! Can't wait to show you more,**

**-Seph**


	3. Chapter 3: An Owl in France

_Chapter Three: An Owl in France_

People, sprawled across towels, chatted happily in French. Their laughs rang in the afternoon sunshine, but were quickly drowned out by gleeful shrieks of children running across the sand. Balls and Frisbees cut through the air and were snatched by the nearest smiling teen. A group of young adults hit a volleyball over a makeshift net. Cold drinks, dripping with condensation, and sun-block were shared beneath the shade of parasols. The beach-goers were acutely aware of the beauty of the sunny day; however, very few noticed a peculiar bird diligently zooming through the cloudless skies.

The large, brown owl swooped over the heads of the oblivious crowd. It darted between flocks of scavenging seagulls, gracefully oscillating its wings. The crowd barely spared a glance at the massive bird, which silently rose over the calm, blue sea. It soared along the beach, never faltering from its mission.

Hermione Granger adjusted the dark shades over her eyes, scanning the skies. She bent her large floppy hat upward in order to see past it, causing the sun to beat intensely on her face. A light burn began to carcass her cheekbones and nose and the heat chapped her lips. In the hopes of seeing above a particularly tall, shirtless man, she lifted herself onto the tips of her toes only to have her brown sandals sink deep into the sand. She huffed loudly, catching the attention of the man. He turned to her and smiled awkwardly, before jogging away to meet a family over-applying sunscreen. She only spared him a short, annoyed glance, keeping her attention of the skies. Finally, she spotted the large, out-of-place bird flapping into the distance. She watched it, curiously confused.

"'Mione! There you are!" an English voice greeted her from behind. Hermione smiled halfheartedly and swatted a hand in the general direction of the voice; her eyes never broke focus from the bird. It disappeared behind the bright rays of the sun. "What're doing all the way over here?"

"I thought I saw an owl," she explained, turning around. A smiling man, with short, frizzy hair and prefect teeth, stood in front of her, absentminded hands on his hips. The man squinted at the sky for a short moment. Shrugging, he turned his red face back to Hermione and threw an arm around her.

"You're not the only witch in France, you know," he whispered, guiding her away from the crowded shore. He kissed the top of her hat. "Come on, let's find Mum."

Hermione smiled unsurely. She glanced behind her. The only birds left on the beach were seagulls. "But it seemed to be coming from England..." she muttered, reluctantly walking alongside her father. They sauntered off the beach and onto a densely populated street.

"Pumpkin, I'm sure Harry got your present!" her father reassured, misinterpreting her anxiety. His voice rose with the volume of the swarm of tourists, which muffled any clarification Hermione could have given. The streets were dense with people, all shouting in different tongues. The Grangers had to walk tightly together to shove past those who didn't understand the meaning of "excuse me" or couldn't hear the words.

The women covering the walkways wore sundresses and the men wore button down shirts, causing the Grangers to look very foreign in their khaki shorts and T-shirts. Sticking out in particular was a woman, who stood at the corner of two roads, wearing long pants, a tank top, and a very worried expression. She peered through the crowd, tying her wild curls into a tight bun. "Oh look, there's your mother!"

"Hermione!" the woman yelled, elbowing past a middle aged French woman wearing a low-cut shirt. Hermione was attacked by the arms of her mother, halting the traffic of agitated people around them. The embrace was short. The distraught women pulled away and glared at her daughter. "What do you think you're doing wandering off like that? This isn't like walking around the neighborhood! We're in a foreign country! Who knows what could have happened?"

"I was only gone for a moment," Hermione explained. Her mother frowned and folded her hands across her chest.

"Ladies," her father chimed, throwing an arm around his wife. He hugged the woman close to him. She was unable to fight the smile creeping onto her lips. "How about we get some lunch?"

"Yes," Hermione smiled wearily, still thinking about the unusual owl. "I'm getting a little hungry now that you mention it."

Mr. Granger led his reluctant wife back into the steady pace of the masses, closely followed by his daughter.

...

The night air poured in past the pressed curtains and through the open window. It filled the cramped hotel room with a thick heat, which settled around a lonely pair of bare feet. These feet trudged across the wooden floor, stopping their chipped painted nails below the window. They wiggled sleepily as if they were mildly curious and groggily enthusiastic. Their owner sighed, interrupting the mixture of muffled adult snores and the soft buzz of traffic.

Hermione peered over the city lights and into the starless night sky. She could almost see the large, brown owl cutting through the night with grace and ease. Something inside her told her that the owl was important. Perhaps, it was simply because the owl acted important: It glided high above the crowds, never slowing until its mission was complete. Perhaps, it was because she awoke that morning with an uneasy sense that something was off back home.

Her mind rationalized that the worry came from the nearing of the school year and the aftershock of the events of last year. Hermione never failed to shudder at the memory of waking up, cold, in the hospital wing with only the recollection of big, yellow eyes between bookcases. Even with this knowledge, her heart fretted throughout the day and her thoughts continuously landed on her best friends.

Hermione knew, of course, that both of these sensations came from the brain and it was silly to think that the heart could actually feel anything, but both feelings seemed to be originating from different sources. Reluctantly, Hermione decided to call the less rational source her heart. Sighing, she pushed up her sleeves and rested on the windowsill. She wished her "heart" would quiet.

In the distant blackness, she spotted the bird again, only, this time, it flapped its short wings clumsily as if the oncoming wind was too great of a force to soar through. Around its thin talons was a white envelope. The twitching bird struggled to fly higher under the weight of its package. Hermione watched the poor creature until it zoomed directly for her. Its green eyes were wide with horror as it shot through Hermione's messy curls and into a bland painting on the opposite wall. It fell to the floor, unmoving.

Hermione gasped and scurried across the room. A soft grumble and shuffling was heard from the bed beside her. Ignoring her parents stirring, she knelt beside the small animal. Its wing jerked awkwardly.

"Errol!" she whispered, lifting the frail bird into her arms. It twitched into a standing position, and stuck on its leg. Hermione untied the envelope and brought the creature into the bathroom, where she filled a cup with water. Errol hooted gratefully and dipped its beak into the glass. The bird, following its usual, odd agenda, seemed fine despite the previous collision.

"Silly bird," Hermione shook her head and tore open the package. Inside was a long letter scrawled with familiar handwriting. Hermione's heart stuttered as she read the words.

_Hermione, _

_You'll never guess what's happening here! No one wants to tell me the whole story. Mum keeps cutting off sentences when I walk into the room. She's acting absolutely bonkers! Yelling about this and that for NO REASON. Well, I guess I did tell her I'd degnome the garden. But I've got more important things to worry about! Harry blew up his aunt! That's what I'm writing to tell you. I had to pay Fred and George five galleons to use the Extendable Ear. __Five WHOLE galleons__! Anyway, I caught part of Mum and Dad's argument. They've been arguing a lot lately. They were going on about Harry and something they didn't want to tell him. Then he said he was almost expelled! Then... Mum sorta... spotted the ear. She went absolutely mad with anger! But Dad said something about me deserving to know some of what was going on. So he told me that Harry blew up his aunt. On accident, of course. But just like that! One minute, she was fine. The next POOF! And she floated up to the ceiling! I figure she'd been saying something nasty. She __is__ part of __their__ family. Looks like I have to go now. I think Ginny's found out that she's missing five galleons. I'll get the whole story next week when I go down to the Leaky Cauldron. Bloody hell, Hermione, you really chose the worst time to go on vacation. _

_-Ron_

Hermione read the letter over three times before she was able to comprehend the words. First, she frantically skimmed the letter rather than reading it. She was too distracted by Errol's soft hooting and the thumping of her racing heart. She took a deep breath, sucking in the humid air, and started again. The second time, she could only focus on Ron's inability to tell a good story and strong ability to be (Hermione scolded herself for her lack of a better word) a fool.

It was only after the third reading that the words were given meaning. Harry had been in trouble. _Of worse, _she thought. _He still could be in trouble._

The impact of these words caused the young girl's knees to weaken. She slowly sat on the tiles. Their heat sizzled against her cold skin. After a few long minutes of processing, a single question rattled between her ears. _Why hadn't Harry been expelled_? Hermione, of course, didn't want him to be expelled and knew how unfair it would be if he had been, but she knew that there was something strange about the situation. After all, it was Harry's second time "using" magic outside of school. He _should_ have been expelled. Anyone else would have been.

With the mysterious owl gone from her thoughts, Hermione focused on her newest worry.

...

**AN: I am deeply sorry for not updating sooner. I've been sitting on this chapter for a while, not quite happy with it. I also decided to join NaNoWriMo and failed miserably. Not to mention, my rapidly declining grades. It's been hard for me to update. The next chapter may take even longer. Again, I feel awful about it. I lost count of how many people are following this story but I know it's well over fifty. I'd hate to disappoint any of you. I know how much **_**I**_** hate it when fanfiction doesn't update.**

**I'd also like to apologize for not replying to all the reviews. There's just so many! I never expected to have this many people comment on the story and it's beginning to be too much to answer. Normally, I'd write personal messages to everyone, but I simply don't have the time. I think I will only reply to the questions and critiques from now one.  
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**I love your wonderful reviews. They make me extremely happy. It melts my heart to see people care enough about this story to review. I did read each and every one and my heart nearly exploded. I feel so bad that I could only reply to less than half. If I don't/didn't reply to you, it doesn't mean I didn't read it. You can still comment on another chapter if you'd like. **

**Thank you all so much for reading!**

**-Seph**


	4. Chapter 4:The Sleepy, The Odd, and The C

**AN: There are minor author's notes* in this chapter explaining certain things that from the books that you might not remember. The only one I recommend reading is the third one, if you read the third book. The second note is a side note connecting that paragraph back to chapter one. None of them I would bother reading until I've finished reading the chapter, if I were to read them at all. So you don't need to be constantly scrolling down to the bottom of the page. **

...

_Chapter Four: The Sleepy, The Odd, and the Cold_

On one side of the wide, brick pillar there was a clock. It was an average clock; black letters sat on a white backdrop, which was framed by a simple ring of silver. The hands were thin and agile, darting precisely over the uncomplicated numbers. Average Muggles drifted by, stopped for a short second to glance at the clock between platforms nine and ten, and shuffled onto trains. Unknown to these people, there was something unique about this seemingly ordinary pillar. Being so caught up in their destinations, the people in London's King's Cross Station never noticed the odd children, who pushed carts full of odd things, disappear under the clock and reappeared under a similar one on a different platform. On this nearly-identical platform between nine and ten, under a clock (which white hands pointed to 10:40 on their black backdrop) was one of the many entrances to the magical world, a world that was very busy.

Wizards conversed loudly on the cobblestone floor. Their laughs boomed through this part of the station. Fretting old witches straightened their child's clothing and rechecked their trucks. Fathers gave optimistic advice to enthusiastic sons. Wide-eyed eleven year olds showed their new wands to each other in secret and shared eagerness about their school. Friends reunited with one another in every direction. Exchanges of stories, summer adventures, and speculations about classes buzzed through the air. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted loudly, followed by an even louder shushing. Platform Nine and Three Quarters was the busiest it had been all year.

In the middle of this gleeful madness, standing in the center of a family of flaming red hair and countless freckles, was a thirteen-year-old boy. Harry Potter watched this family, who were wearing mismatched clothing, yell over one another. He plunged a hand into his mass of black hair and laughed as the woman he considered to be like a mother nearly scrubbed the freckles off of his best friend's face with her sleeve. Molly Weasley, still with rubbing the boy's cheek, turned and smiled warmly at Harry.

With rolled, knitted sleeves, she had attempted to fix every child's hair and made sure every child had a clean face. The woman, herself, did not look nearly as put together as she made her children. Flyaway orange hairs stuck out from beneath her knit hat, homemade robes were so crooked that they were almost sideways, and a frantic worried look was implanted in her features. Harry opened his mouth, but closed it again with a smile.

"Mom," Ron Weasley complained, pushing her hand away. Mrs. Weasley frowned, turning her gaze back on him. A small spot of his cheek, under a foreign smudge of black, was wildly red. Ron rubbed it gently.

"It's only a little spot dear," she explained with controlled annoyance. She clenched her teeth and reached for him. "Now if you would just let me..." Her voice trailed off as she began scratching it at the dark smear.

"Bloody hell, woman!" Ron cried into the palm of his mother's hand. She stopped abruptly and glared, open mouthed, at her son.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, I will not tolerate that tone." She pulled away from him, sighed dramatically, reached her stout arms toward Harry. "If you want to go to school with a dirty face, fine. But don't complain to me when others stare." Mrs. Weasley pushed down hard on Harry's wild hair, attempting to deem it presentable. Harry smiled sheepishly as she huffed, gave up, and moved on to her youngest and only daughter, Ginny, who playfully elbowed Ron out of her way.

"Finally get a break from _her_," Ron whispered to Harry, gestured toward the short women straightening Ginny's robes. "I don't think my face could take anymore."

Harry grinned. "Aunt Petunia locked me outside for the night in July. It was 'an accident'" Ron spared him a short look of sympathy.

"Fine, you win," Ron said with slight reluctance. Harry laughed.

From the other side of the Weasleys, Hermione gingerly moved past the set of tall twins, Fred and George, who discussed something quietly, heads close together. She gripped a large purple box with a barred door as one side and grinned at her two best friends. Ron and Harry watched her get intercepted by Mrs. Weasley. She grabbed the young girl's shoulders, spun her around, and smiled softly into Hermione's sun-kissed face. Hermione dropped the box, causing a frightened hiss to come from the creature inside.

"You're so pretty, dear." Mrs. Weasley admired the young girl's now completely red face before attacking her hair. Her short fingers pulled through Hermione's tangles, making the enormous bush of brown hair around her head less chaotic. Hermione winced with each tug but the woman did not stop.

"Ah, Penelope*!" An older student with flaming red hair and his chest puffed out, shoved past Harry and Ron. A golden badge engraved with the words _Bighead Boy_ in large fancy letters glinted on the front of his robes.

"Percy!" Mrs. Weasley snapped into attention, much to Hermione's relief. She whispered an "excuse me, Hermione dear" and skipped over to her departing son. She ripped a square wrapped in napkins out of her purse. "Don't forget your sandwich!"

Hermione picked up a cage by her feet and walked over to the boys. A quiet meow emitted from the closed box.

"Don't worry, Crookshanks," Hermione giggled toward the cage. The tip of a fluffy, orange tail poked out of the front bars. "I'll let you out once we're on the train."

"No, you won't," Ron snapped. His ears grew visibly hot. "That _thing_'ll kill Scabbers!" Ron unconsciously placed a hand on the lump in the front of his button-down shirt.

"You don't even give him a chance!"

In the middle of Hermione's retaliation, the breath of a quiet voice hit Harry's ear. "Harry." Harry jumped and turned to see the long nose of Arthur Weasley, Ron's father. Harry stared into his serious face.

"I have to talk to you." Without proper warning, the tall, balding man yanked Harry out of the crowd. The young wizard stared up at his anxious face. Mr. Weasley's eyes, tired and worried, periodically stole glances at his wife, who continued to talk with Percy. He, again, crouched to Harry's eye level and leaned close, leaving little room between them. "Harry, I need to tell you something," Mr. Weasley's voice was almost too quiet to hear. He spoke quickly and seriously.

"I already know," Harry answered. He couldn't help but keep with the trend of quietness.

"This is very impor—What?" He gasped, searching Harry's face.

"I overheard you and Mrs. Weasley last night," Harry confessed, avoiding eye contact. The two spouses had been loudly arguing behind a half closed door. Mrs. Weasley shouted and slammed her fists on something—a side table, a wall. Mr. Weasley had yelled back and attempted reason. One firmly believed Harry's safety depended on his ignorance; the other strongly disagreed. The only conclusion that was reached was the latter's current, secret conversation. "Er—sorry."

"Oh... no, it's quite all right." Mr. Weasley's ears turned red and the urgency in his tone was replaced with absentminded regret. "I wish I could have told you more gently… You must be very scared."

"I'm not," Harry reassured him. Mr. Weasley studied the boy's face in disbelieve. "_Honestly_."

"Alright, Harry," He accepted this statement, without the accompanied look of belief. "There's still one more important thing. Harry, Black is highly dangerous. He's a raving madman and he's after _you_. Now, you _must_ promise me one thing—"

"Stay in the castle and out of trouble," Harry finished in a mechanical voice. His eyes dropped with sullen disappointment. A single name drifted through his mind, a place he desperately wished he were allowed. He imagined himself alone in the common room, watching, from a window, his friends laugh and skip down a flowery path leading to a small cluster of cottages and stores. He would be alone in the common room, forced to study while his friends were off having the best time of their lives in the wonderful, magical village called Hogsmeade. If only Fudge had signed that form*...

"Er—not exactly." Mr. Weasley shot a glance to his wife, who appeared to have spotted them. She squinted around her ginger twins at their private conversation. Mr. Weasley began to talk faster. "I want you to promise me that you won't go looking for him."

"Why would I—" Harry started but was interrupted by the man's frantic whisper.

"Harry, promise me you won't," he begged. "No matter what you hear about him. Regardless of anything anyone says. You mustn't go looking for him."

Harry was about to finish his prevailing question, but was stopped by Mrs. Weasley's shrill "Arthur, quickly!" The two were forced to rejoin the group. The clock's swift, white hands now read 10:55. The remaining Hogwarts students diminished from the platform into the nearly full train.

...

Harry eagerly shuffled into the small compartment onboard the Hogwarts Express after Hermione and Ron. The lonely compartment in the back, which the three friends now made themselves comfortable inside of, was the only "empty" seating on the train. Harry sat next to Ron and eyed the strange man opposite him. The only other occupant, much to their surprise, was a sleeping man with a trunk reading _Professor R. J. Lupin_. A tattered hat covered his face and his slim frame was buried in rugged robes. Nothing seemed to wake him.

"Harry, what was it you were trying to tell us?" Hermione probed. She sat, upright, a seat away from the sleeping man. She placed the purple box on the seat directly next to her and allowed a large, orange, tabby cat to saunter out onto her lap. He purred softly as it sat on its feet. His yellow eyes fixated on the bulge in Ron's shirt pocket. Hermione patted his head absentmindedly.

Harry watched the sleeping professor nervously for a moment before explaining what he overheard last night. Ron's eyes widened so much that Harry wondered if they would pop out of his skull. Hermione's eyebrows wrinkled in deep concern and she began to fidget. She blankly stared at her picking thumbs, lost in thought.

"The weirdest part," Harry mused aloud. He was aware of his friends' anxiety over the subject but chose to ignore it. "Is that your dad" He looked over to Ron, whose eyes began to shrink to a normal size. "Told me not to go _looking_ for him."

Hermione's head shot up. She looked even more worried. Ron simply looked confused. His eyebrows were scrunched together and his mouth half-hung open, dumbfounded.

"Why the hell would you _want_ to look for someone who's trying to kill you?" Ron nearly shouted. Everyone, except Professor Lupin, was fixed on Harry, who only shrugged. They sat motionless for a moment taking in the information. The compartment was silent for more than a moment.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Crookshanks growled and leaped off of Hermione's lap. His owner squealed and held her hand close to her face. Crookshanks pounced at the compartment door only to fall onto the ground. Ron snorted out of a stunned expression. He smirked at Hermione, who glared back. Harry watched Crookshanks dizzily stumble backwards. Lupin remained still.

"Crookshanks!" Hermione scooped the cat into her arms. She held him close and gently scratched his head with her injured hand. A thin layer of skin was scratched off her right hand in a long, thin line but it did not bleed. She brought her face close to the animal and whispered soothing words to it, before asking: "What's gotten into you?"

"Are you _serious_?" Ron said indignantly. His mouth hung open. "It just _attacked _you and you're _cuddling_ it?"

"_He_," Hermione corrected. "Was just frightened." She hugged the cat closer to her chest.

"Er—What's that?" Harry interrupted, surveying the door. Hermione creased her eyebrows and followed Harry's gaze. Ron crossed his arms and pouted.

The compartment door slowly began to open. From her seat, Hermione peaked out the narrow opening but saw nothing on the other side. Her hazel eyes dropped to the floor, where a small, white paw batted at the bottom of the sliding door, pushing it. It poked through the gap with each pat until there was enough room for a small pink nose to creep through.

"It's a cat," Hermione stated, causing Ron to jerk his head in her direction. A silence "what" fell from his lips before he looked down and saw a small, purely white cat standing in front of him. Crookshanks hissed at the oblivious animal but stayed in Hermione's arms.

"Bloody hell, another one?" Ron groaned. He poked his finger in his shirt pocket. He sighed with relief as it grazed the top of his pet rat's head. The white cat rubbed its cheek against Ron's shins. Purring loudly, it climbed onto his lap and rested its chin on Ron's idle hand. Ron raised an eyebrow awkwardly and attempted to flick its head off by moving his fingers, but the cat only nuzzled deeper into Ron's knuckles. Harry smiled and Hermione giggled.

"Isn't he sweet?" Hermione noted dreamily. Crookshanks grumbled in her arms.

Ron looked sideways at her before relaxing. He released the tension in his shoulders, slouching forward slightly. "I guess he's not that bad. Better than that monster you're holding."

Hermione opened her mouth to oppose but was interrupted by her dark haired companion.

"You don't suppose it's this Lupin guy's cat, do you?" Harry wondered aloud. Ron shrugged.

"I suppose it's not _impossible_," Hermione suggested. "It's not against any rules. Well, any that I've read about in _Hogwarts: A History_, but I've never actually heard of a teacher that—"

"Harry!" Ron shouted interrupting Hermione. Forgetting the cat was snug in his lap, Ron rapidly shifted positions. The cat gracefully moved itself with Ron, keeping his eyes closed the entire time. Hermione scowled but listened intently. "Don't you think it's ironic that a _white_ cat walks into the room when we're talking about Sirius_ Black_."

"I dunno, is it?" Harry asked. Hermione looked from the two boys then to the foreign cat.

"Yeah!" Ron yelled, tossing his hands around. "It's got to be a good omen! Y'know?" Ron was unaware of Harry's tensing at the word "omen". "Because Black's the bad guy and white is the opposite of black and when we're talking about him, this little bugger walks in! That stuff doesn't just happen!"

"Ron," Hermione smiled. "It _did_ just happen."

"No, but it didn't _just_ happen," Ron explained. Hermione patted Crookshanks and elevated an eyebrow. "Cats don't _just_ walk into _anyone's_ compartment. Not without reason."

"Wait, are you saying this cat's good luck or something?" Harry queried, studying the tranquil look of the animal's face.

"Oh, that's just superstition," Hermione dismissed the idea with a wave. Assuming the conversation would be dropped, she regarded her pet lovingly. The tug of smile was present on her lips.

"I wouldn't underestimate superstition, if I were you. Some regard it as oldest form of magic," an unfamiliar voice advised. The trio turned to see a blond man in his mid-twenties standing in the doorway.

The very first thing Harry noticed was eyebrows: thick, dark blond eyebrows. They sat on the man's forehead above preoccupied green eyes.

The second thing was his smell. Along with the strong scent of Earl Grey tea, the strange man emitted an aroma that reminded Harry of the Quidditch field right after the rain. The grass would be soft and spongy and the sun wouldn't beat too hard on his neck. He would easily whiz through the moist air under parting clouds. Then he thought of Hogwarts' courtyard, where the grass was freshly mowed and the rain was only at a drizzle. A single word tapped at the back of Harry's mind: home.*

"Uh… yeah," The words fell from Ron's mouth as he, also, blinked out of his reverie. "Who are you?"

Hermione gawked at her friend's rudeness. She opened her mouth but fumbled for something to say. The man smiled at her, causing her cheeks to turn pink.

"The owner of that cat," he answered, looking back at Ron, who glanced down at the "omen". As if on cue, the cat jumped up into a sitting position. He meowed, flicked his thin tail, and hoped onto the man's shoulder. He rubbed his face against the visitor's temple, purring louder than ever. "Sorry, about that." His smile faded slightly as he added, as an afterthought: "He seems to have a thing for redheads."

"Are... you a student?" Harry questioned carefully. An odd expression passed over the man's face. It was gone as quickly as it came.

"Rubbish. Do I look that young?" His voice was distant and pensive. Harry exchanged a confused glance with Ron. The strange man was silent for a moment before tearing himself out of his thoughts and sticking a hand toward the boy. "Professor Arthur James Kirkland, and this." He nodded his head toward the albino cat balanced on his shoulder, which continued to rub his face in Professor Kirkland's messy hair. "This is Merlin."

Harry guardedly shook the hand, smiling weakly. "I'm Harry."

"Harry," he repeated with an out-of-place, professional nod. He moved his hand to Hermione who introduced herself enthusiastically as "Hermione Granger, third year", and then over to Ron, who shook it awkwardly and mumbled his name.

"Well, I'll see you all in class," he concluded and stepped back. Hermione's eyes widened.

"W-wait," she sputtered. Kirkland stopped. "What… what course are you teaching? Is it Muggle history? I noticed that there wasn't a book on the shopping list. It must be a mistake, of course. So I bought a few basic history books to prepare. But then, of course, I wasn't sure where you would start. I've read all about the Roman Empire. (It seems to be a popular starting point for Muggle high schools). Then again, we might start later…" Hermione's voice drifted off. A scarlet face replaced the rambling words.

Kirkland, who didn't notice her change in color, seemed to be contemplating something. He slowly smiled. "Not everything can be learned from books, Miss Granger."

"Oh," she said simply, a blank expression on her face. Her brown eyes, however, seemed to be searching for something behind her forehead. Arthur struggled to hide his mild surprise at the student's reaction. "So you won't be teaching from a book?" Her words carefully moved off her lips into the awkward air.

"No, it's not necessary for my class." Kirkland explained. A steady silence filled the compartment, broken only by the nonchalant verbalizing of Merlin. Three pairs of discomfited eyes blinked back at him. "Well," he continued, acutely aware the cloud of awkwardness surrounding the group. "Nice meeting you three."

"Er—see you around," Harry smiled dully at the teacher.

"Right," Kirkland returned the listless grin, while Merlin happily jumped off his shoulder and cuddled into his arms, which instantaneously cradled the animal. He purred loudly, wiggled onto his back, and lazily pawed at the teacher's simple, brown tie. No on acknowledged the creature. "See you around," Kirkland parroted, turning quickly and stepping out of the room. The door slid shut behind him.

"That was weird," Ron stated the unanimous feeling. "What's he doing on the train anyway? Don't teachers normally arrive before?" Hermione didn't seem to hear him.

"I can't believe he teaches without a book," she huffed, crossing her arms indignantly. She furrowed her eyebrows, chewing on the knowledge and discovering that it had a bitter taste. "There's no possible way he could remember _everything_. Not without a book for reference. How does he know what he teaches is correct?"

"You basically do that everyday," Harry declared, watching Hermione's unchanging expression. Ron nodded in agreement.

"No, not exactly…" Hermione started before her visage changed from resentful to curious. She turned her face toward the door and tilted her head to the left, not unlike a dog when it's heard a high whistle. Ron seemed to be unintentionally imitating her. Harry followed their disconnected eyes and strained to hear over Crookshanks humming. Hermione creaked open the door a tad, allowing a laugh, thickly coated with sarcasm, to float into the room. Harry shifted, accidently moving the foot of the forgotten fourth occupant. The man did not stir, but Harry would not have noticed if he had. Outside the compartment, an increasing irritated conversation was taking place.

"Yes, yes, it's all very funny. Now will you just unlock the door," the owner of the cynical chuckle, who Harry recognized as the odd Professor Kirkland, continued irately.

"I'm sorry, sir," said a bewildered female voice. "I was being very serious. I can't."

"What do you me you can't," the rhetorical question shot of the man's mouth, unnecessarily harsh and extremely frustrated. Hermione gasped at the professor's excessive anger. She turned to blink at the two boys across from her before whirling back to face the slightly open door. All three students listened intently. "You just locked it. Take the bloody key, shove in it, and unlock the damn thing."

"There's no need for that kind of language, _sir_," the woman's voice was stern and far from amused. Her connotation added to the title "sir" was that of an insult. Ron half-smirked at this.

"I just want to get into my seat," the professor's voice was somewhat more composed than before. It sounded slightly muffled, as if he slapped an exasperated hand on his face.

The woman sighed. "The door's _enchanted_," she explained rudely, placed unwarranted emphasis on the final word. "There's nothing I can do. They put a spell on them so that when I lock them, they stay locked until we get to Hogwarts."

"Why the hell would they do that?" Kirkland demanded.

"The 'increased security'," the woman recited, without dropping her attitude. "So we can 'condense' all the kids into a smaller area. Easier to keep track of."

"Fine," he spat the word. "I get that. But, _why_ would you lock _my_ compartment? I was only gone for five minutes."

"How was I supposed to know it was yours?" Harry leaned forward as the conversation seemed to drop slightly in volume.

"My bloody briefcase—" Kirkland started loudly, but stopped himself abruptly. A faint rumbling sounded throughout the corridor. It vaguely reminded Harry of sneaking out of his room in the middle of the night. He remembered the soft tone of the opening door, almost identical to the quiet noise in the hall.

There was a short bout of silence. Hermione tentatively moved her hand toward the door. She wrapped her small fingers around the edge of the cool metal surrounded the stained wooden door. Sucking in her breath she pushed the door away from her, leaving it almost half way open. Ron shared a glance with Hermione and cautiously moved forward until he was nearly off the bench. He peered out the door and beckoned for the other two to follow. Hermione whisked to his side, fitting her face next to the redheaded boy. Her bushels of curls settled on top of his head and beside his ear. Ron half-heartedly pushed the hair away from him.

Harry glanced down at the sleeping man. Lupin hadn't moved an inch since the train left King's Cross Station. The oversized hat continued to hide his face. In the back of Harry mind, he wondered what the man looked like and he decided that he would look as rough as his dress. Pushing the irrelevant contemplations out of his thoughts, Harry turned back to his two friends. They sat in mirroring positions: both on the edges of their seats, supporting themselves by gripping the door or the wall beside the door. Harry smiled back down at Lupin, internally asked about his current situation, and shrugged, before joining his two friends. He stood behind the two and watched the scene from above their heads.

Professor Kirkland stood about ten feet from the trio. He had his back to them. His right hand was placed firmly on his hip, where his monotonous green sweater vest tucked into khaki slacks. His left hand made it's way from lingering by what they could assume was his mouth to diving into the blond thickness residing on his scalp. By his polished shoes, which were planted close together, was Merlin. The cat sat next to his owner staring up at the woman across from them.

She was in her mid-thirties. The ghost of crow's feet around her eyes contradicted her current expression. Her brown eyes scowled at him and her mouth hung slightly open, ready to retaliate. Her fists sat on her hips, where her frilly blouse was tucked neatly into her gray pencil skirt. Her uniform was made complete with black nylons and black, non-slip shoes.

"I'll only say it one more time: I didn't see no briefcase," she explained harshly, lifting her eyebrows. Kirkland sighed noisily. The woman crossed her arms across her busty chest. "Listen, there is no way you can get into that cabin until we stop at Hogwarts and there's nothing I can do about it."

"And _where_ am I supposed to sit?" Kirkland grumbled through clenched teeth. The woman smiled wickedly.

"There're plenty of empty seats in unlocked compartments," she clarified smugly. She uncrossed her hands and reached behind her. Her polished nails landed on the hand to the metal trolley, resting by her curvaceous hips. Kirkland stood unmoving in front of her. He puffed in and out through his nostrils.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do," she said with false politeness. She turned and gripped the handle of her cart tightly before sauntering down the hall in the opposite direction. She walked purposefully by hurriedly closing doors, as if she had just aced a hard test.

Kirkland stood there for a short moment before looking down at the animal by his feet. "Pick a seat," he whispered, defeated. The cat perked up onto light feet. He meowed at up his owner and turned to face the trio. Hermione's eyes widen and she threw herself back into the cabin, nearly knocking Harry off his feet.

"Oof—Hermione," Harry protested as she steady himself.

Ignoring her friend, she swiftly grabbed the door and pulled it shut, accidently scratching Ron's nose in the process.

"Bloody hell, 'Mione!" Ron yelped, holding his nose. He flinched back, landing in his seat. "What're you trying to do? Rip my nose off?"

"Sorry—" Hermione began but was cut off by Crookshanks wildly climbing up her leg. "Ow!" she yapped, pulling the cat off of her pants. His claws clutched onto the fabric, causing it to rip.

"Told you that cat was no good," Ron's voice was distorted because he was still pinching his nostrils shut.

"Do you really think it's the time for 'I told you so's?" Hermione asked, out of breath. She carefully placed her tabby cat inside the purple cage and closed the door. "And there's nothing wrong Crookshanks."

"What do you mean?" Harry inquired. He stared down at his feet realizing that he was still standing. He glanced back at Hermione, waiting for an answer, as he took his seat directly next to Ron. "About the time thing," he clarified.

"Oh—well—I guess I'm just a little on edge." Hermione's eyes darted to the close door and back to the two boys and her hand nervously clutched her ripped knee.

Harry looked sideways at her. "Wait… was Kirkland—" He was cut off by a curt knock. The trio turned to the door. Hermione inhaled. Harry studied the grain of the wooden door in the general area from which the knock originated. Ron lifted an eyebrow confusedly. He, too, looked at the door, struggling to understand the significance of the disembodied tap. Another quick knock thudded against the door. Hermione finally exhaled and croaked, "Come in."

She shook away her nerves, as she took another deep breath. Regardless of her obvious distaste to the professor's teaching methods (_Which I have yet to actually see_, a small voice in the back of Hermione's mind reminded her) Hermione felt an overwhelming urge to impress this man. Logic told her that it was silly to be compelled toward someone she barely knew. However, she couldn't deny that she yearned for his approval. It wasn't for romance. (_Although, he is very handsome,_ the voice quipped_._) Hermione could sense the importance of this man. The image of a large brown owl soaring over the beach in France briefly came to her mind. Not unlike with this owl, Hermione thirsted for knowledge about her new professor and the compulsion to awe him. This peculiar feeling overwhelmed her, causing her to be unsure of how to act.

The door flew open to reveal the disgruntled Professor Kirkland. His emerald eyes, looking as if they'd given up on happiness, glanced down at the trio. They held a mixture of bored annoyance, and self-pity. Merlin scurried into the cabin and made himself in comfortable in the seat by the window.

"I seem to have no place to sit," he said, attempting to act like the gentleman he always claimed to be. His smile wavered. "Mind if I join you three—four?" Kirkland examined the sleeping man, as if noticing him for the first time. The corner of his lips rose slightly.

"Of course!" Hermione chirped nervously. She reddened and lowered her voice to a reasonable pitch. "I mean, of course."

"Thank you," he replied, looking at Hermione before he moved toward the seat next to Harry and across from Lupin. He picked up the cat and sat where Merlin had been. As he sat, he nodded a "hello" to his sleeping colleague, who remained unmoving. He even went as far as to say, "All right, mate?" Hermione's eyebrows knitted together and Ron and Harry shared another confused look.

This small source of amusement seemed to turn Kirkland's mood. He smiled down at his cat, gently patting his white head. Soon, Kirkland became aware that the trio was watching him. A heavy silence engulfed the occupants, interrupted only by Merlin's purring. Harry coughed and stared toward the door, pretending to wonder if the cart would come soon. Ron frowned deeply, studying the professor. Hermione, whose face was now completely pink, examined everything but the professor. Kirkland, sensing the awkwardness, pulled his book out from his pocket and began reading silently.

"Continue on talking," Professor Kirkland advised with his eyes glued to his pages. "Don't mind me."

"Right," Ron muttered gloomily. Harry pretended to scratch a stain off his pants. Hermione giggled nervously

"Right!" she chirped. Her face deepened in color. Ron lifted at orange eyebrow at her unfolded his arms. Hermione recoiled away at his glance and let out a small, uneasy snort, which would have easily been mistake for giddy, girlish laugh.

"Are you all right, Hermione?" Ron asked, examining Hermione red face. She smiled halfheartedly, willing her tone to calm down. She wasn't sure why she was so eager to impress Kirkland or why this eagerness made her so nervous. She had met important people before. _This situation is different_, the small voice echoed in her mind. _Kirkland is different._

"Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?" Hermione snapped.

"Guys, do we have to start the year off fighting?" Harry pleaded. The two looked at him guiltily.

"Sorry, mate," Ron explained. "I guess it's the aftershock of sharing a room with Percy at the Cauldron*." He smiled and playfully punched Harry in the arm. "But it looks like Fred and George got him back for that, eh?" Harry laughed, remembering Percy's golden badge.

"So," Hermione interrupted, after convincing herself to act as if Kirkland is not there. The boys smiled at her. "We get to go to Hogsmeade this year." Ron's eyes lit up, while Harry's dropped to the ground. "I've spent most of the summer researching it! I've read _Sites of Historical Sorcery_, _1,001 Magical Places to Visit_, _The Goblin Rebellions of 1612, _and _Britain's Most Haunted_—that's the Shrieking Shack, you know. It's supposedly the most haunted building in all of Britain. Not that we'll be able to go inside. Oh and did you know that Hogsmeade is the only magical settle—"

"I'm just excited for Honeydukes!" Ron suddenly burst in. A wide grin spread across his face. Hermione, ignoring that she was interrupted, looked perplexed. "It's a sweetshop. They've got _everything_!" Ron threw his hands up excitedly. His voice grew louder. "Pepper Imps that make you smoke at the mouth! The best sugar quills that you can suck on in class and it'll just look like you're thinking about what to write…"

His voice trailed off and he glanced at the two professors. Kirkland smiled into his book. Lupin remained unmoving.

"Won't it be wonderful, Harry?" Hermione turned to him. Her cheeks were flushed and her brown eyes were glazed with happiness.

"You'll have to tell me," Harry grumbled, without looking up. He stared at Dudley's old shoes angrily.

"You didn't get permission?" Ron was horrified. His eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. A sudden rush of guilt wiped the happiness from Hermione's features.

"The Dursleys won't sign my form, especially not after Aunt Marge" Harry explained, still staring at his shoes. "Neither would Fudge."

Kirkland's head snapped up at mention of the name "Dursley". He slowly leaned forward to examine Harry's face. His eyes lingered on his forehead, where his bangs barely managed to conceal a thing, lightening-shaped scar. His green eyes filled with wonder, curiosity, and, finally, recognition.

"You're Harry Potter," he stated awestruck. He ran a hand through his untidy blond locks and shook the disbelief off his features. Harry looked up at him, slightly annoyed. "My God, it's been years."

The trio gawked at him in confusion. Kirkland only continued to stare, with a half-smile hanging on his lips.

"Sorry, but have we met before?" Harry watched Kirkland's nostalgic eyes. No matter how many times this happened, Harry could never get used to the captivated reaction people had when meeting him.

"Not formally," Kirkland joked. A strange emotion passed over his eyes. They appeared to be filled with memory, far more memory than a man of such a young age could hold. Looking into these eyes, one could almost picture the collection of recollections floating through his mind. Hermione was reminded of something she had read about in her first year at Hogwarts: a Pensive. The memorizing amount of emotion and memory that Kirkland's eyes held was what Hermione would expect a Pensive to look like. This strange emotion lingered on Kirkland's eyes for some time. "It's just that…" he continued, no longer seeing the boy that his eyes were focused on. "I haven't seen you since you were a baby. Since Albus went to drop you off on Privet Drive."

"You were there?" Hermione gasped, forgetting the compulsion and apprehension she had been so concentrates on before. She racked her mind for answers, tossing about quick calculations. "But you're so young! You couldn't have been older than we are now."

"Ah, but you are mistaken," Kirkland smirked. His green eyes twinkled with something Hermione couldn't identify. "Miss...?"

"Granger," Hermione reported, reminding her new professor. "Hermione Granger."

"Miss Granger," the professor spoke the name with grace and respect. "I'm not as young as I look. Not _nearly_ as young."

"How old are you, then?" Ron demanded. The expression of bewilderment appeared to own a permanent home on his face. Kirkland grimaced.

"I would have thought a boy of Arthur's would have better manners than that," Kirkland warned, suddenly sounding less like an old wise man and more like the man he mentioned.

The threesome blinked at the unusual wizard, unable to decipher his words.

"You are a Weasley, aren't you?" Kirkland asked, eyeing past Harry to scrutinize the other boy's bright orange hair and abundance of freckles.

"Wait, you know my dad?" Ron's ears went scarlet.

"Oh, yes," Professor Kirkland placed his bookmark inside the little black book he was reading and left it beside his cat it, on his lap. The elegant font on the cover read: _A Tale of Two Cities_. "He works for the Ministry. Good man. He's actually quite the character. Last week, I was done there and had a book that I planned on referencing in class—something on Muggle weaponry. He was so fascinated by it that I let it keep it." Kirkland blinked at the boy, suddenly realizing that he had been rambling. "He's a good man, hard worker." He concluded. "I trust you'll be one also."

"Er," Ron's ears turned a deeper shade of red, matching his flaming hair. "I suppose…"

Kirkland grinned and picked up his leather-bound book once again. He looked as if he were about to say something, when the passengers of the Hogwarts Express were, suddenly, thrown off balance. The train had stopped abruptly, jostling the occupants of the cabin onto one another. Kirkland nearly fell into Lupin's lap. Ron smashed his head into Hermione's ripped knee. Harry knocked his head into Crookshanks cage, causing it to open. The cat leaped out with a violent hiss and clawed onto Ron's scalp. Ron yelped, followed by Hermione's cry of "Crookshanks!" Harry found himself on his knees in front of his seat. He looked around wildly for unasked answers. Before anyone could adjust, the lights went out.

"What's going on?" someone screeched.

"We're broken down!" yelled another panicked voice.

"It's freezing in here," Harry noted. He pulled himself back onto the seat to see ice creeping along the glass. An unwelcome cold started in his fingertips and traveled through his bones and blood vessels to his heart. Somewhere close to him, an unknown man's hoarse voice commanded, "Quiet!"

Then, Harry heard nothing.

No sound, not even the shuffling of passengers broke through to Harry. He turned toward the outside window, looking for an explanation. Ice slowly crept onto the glass, crackling with unheard noise. Behind the snowy frame, a cloaked figure floated. Its skeletal digits scratched the windowpane. The eyes, unseen on a faceless figure, stole Harry's feeling. Every bit of happiness the young boy had ever had was sucked from him in a single stare. He was frozen in miserable silence.

Suddenly, a piercing scream shook his entire body. Someone was dying. A woman was being tortured to death and Harry was too frozen to save her. She was dying and there was nothing Harry could do. She needed him and he needed her to live. Harry's eyes rolled back into his skull. Eternal darkness blinded him as he groped forward, looking for the woman in pain, trying to avoid the beast at the window.

His limps went rigid and he fell.

...

**AN:**

*** "**_Ah, Penelope!_" **Percy's girlfriend.**

***"** _If only Fudge had signed that form..._" **The form here is the permissions slip allowing Harry to visit Hogsmeade, the magical village outside of Hogwarts. The Dursleys wouldn't sign it after Harry blew up his aunt (not that he had a chance to ask) and Fudge (the Minister of Magic) didn't sign it after he talked to Harry at the Leaky Cauldron because he didn't want Harry out of the castle. **

_* "The second thing was his smell… at the back of Harry's mind: home."_ **I'm not sure if any of you caught this in chapter one, but I wrote a line where Snape first enters the story: "**_He audibly sniffed the air with his long, hooked nose and glared with idle curiosity at Arthur, whose cheeks turned slightly pink_". **This is explained in this short paragraph describing Harry's first reactions to England. Snape wasn't just being weird. I threw it in there to hint at a headcanon of mine, as well as hint at a major theme/upcoming event in the story. Once this point is revealed, it may show you readers something about Snape as well. (Not something that isn't in the books or anything). I don't want to say too much though; it would ruin the fun for you. I want to let the story speak for itself, but, at the same time, I don't want anyone to miss this. **

* "...with Percy at the Cauldron" **The Leaky Cauldron at Diagon Alley. For those of you who haven't read the books in a while, or at all, at the end of the summer the Weasleys, as well as Hermione, stayed with Harry at the Leaky Cauldron after Harry blew up his aunt. It was mentioned in the last chapter. Ron had to share a room with Percy, who has been playing annoying older brother, acting all superior with his Head Boy Badge and his new girlfriend, Penelope. **

**Sorry about the late update; my laptop crashed so it's been harder for me to find a computer that's not in use to write this thing. Also, this chapter is wicked long and I wrote it about three times and edited it about 348905434567890. **

**Happy Holidays, everyone! I hope you all had a safe, fun December and will have a Happy New Year. Also, if you're looking for a late gift to give me, reviews are always nice. **

**-Seph**


	5. Chapter 5: Son Lit Libre et l

**AN: Quick warning. All of my Scottish slang and insults are coming from the internet. If anything is blatantly incorrect, don't hesitate to tell me. I can change it. Also, I'm toning down what most people do with Scotland in order to make this understandable. *There are more author's notes (translations mostly). **

_Chapter Five: Son Lit Libre et l'Ami Fran__ç__ais_*

"Get out ay bed, ye pathetic bairn*!" A thickly accented voice rang throughout the Kirkland manor. The Scottish brogue shot past countless, meaningless photographs, down the extensive, narrow hall, and into the darkness pouring out of the final door, which was left ajar. The creaking of mature floors answered the call.

The lofty Scotsman squinted at the last door from the bottom of the set of aged stairs. Red hair looked nearly orange in the mid-morning sunlight shimmering through the parlor window, which, simultaneously, reflected off the paleness of his skin. One large, bare (expect for the tuffs of maroon hair) foot stepped on the beginnings of the staircase, forcing a low croak to sound in the echo of his shout. He brought a fat mug to his lips, gulped down most of his drink, and grimaced.

"This tea's pure* awful, Artie!" he taunted. Alastair Andrew Kirkland continued to peer down the corridor expectantly. Pursing his lips under his crooked, aquiline nose, he focused on the lifeless door. Darkness poured out of the small opening from behind the entrance. A stray questioned wandered into his mind.

"Is he still here?" a new inflection repeated the Scotsman's thoughts. The redhead turned his long neck to see the cover page of the London newspaper. Bold letters, reading THE TIMES, covered the speaker's face. Below the immense title and elegant font (2 September 1993*) was another heading: ESCAPED PRISONER ALLEGEDLY SIGHTED IN LONDON, complemented by a motionless picture of a distraught woman pointing at local bakery. The paper was neatly folded toward the stairway, revealing confused green eyes, a small, rounded nose, and brunette bangs hanging over thick, curved eyebrows.

"Davy?" Alastair questioned. The other man, William Kirkland, lifted a dark eyebrow at his brother. He haphazardly creased the black and white ink and tossed it onto the sofa-seat beside his own. It gently covered the spring puckering out of the stained cushion. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, Wales creased his brows. He stared past his brother, along the metal rails of the staircase and into the dimly lit hall. "When'd ye get in here?" William simply shook his clean-shaven face.

The Scotsman raised a red eyebrow at his brother's dress; the brunette wore a brown suit accompanied by a mute tie. Even his light brown hair, which usually rivaled their younger brother's ("I Don't Own A Comb" Arthur), was neat and parted. His freshly pressed white shirt tucked in tidily into his brown slacks, which ended about an inch above his polished shoes. "Whit's with the suit?" His eyes fell to where his brother's pants stopped, revealing thick leg hair. Alastair smirked. "Is the cat deid?*"

"Ha ha, very funny. It's not mine," William said dismissively, pulling himself onto his black penny loafers. Ignoring his brother's teasing look, he marched over to the opposite rail, to stare down the hall. The fluorescent light flickered above the last bedroom. His left hand absentmindedly ruffled his matted hair. "I thought he left yesterday."

"Nae*? Whose is it? Peter's?" Alastair sniggered; the image of their eleven-year-old brother came into his mind. Peter, who had yet to grow past four feet, liked to sit at the kitchen table and practice his cursive, allowing his feet to swing lazily under his chair, never reaching the faded carpet below. Alastair brought his cup to his grin and swallowed the rest of his beverage.

"Artie's—if he's still here, I swear I'll..." William's voice trailed off as he tramped up the stairs.

"Artie's?" Alastair echoed, taken aback. He titled his head slightly to the left and his eyebrows contracted. His strong bottom jaw jutted forward dumbly in silent confusion. The cogs in his mind struggled to connect. "Hold on," he spoke slowly.

He set the off-white mug on a stack of clumsily piled, old newspapers beside the stairway. Twisting up his stubbly face, he clutched his lower back as he moved from hunched over to standing straight. He fought back a wince as he arched his back, stretching his muscle. He let out a loud, loaded sigh before charging after his brother in curiosity.

"Whit ye wearin' his stuff for?" Alastair inquired as he skipped by his brother, cutting him off right before the end of the hall. Scotland's wide shoulders dominated the narrow hall in front of the younger nation, a mildly puzzled glare stuck on his features. He studied Wales' unchanging expression. After a few short moments, Alastair's eyes softened and he shoved his fists into the pockets of his jeans, only to pull the right one out again. "Ya arnae* goin' tae one o' those poetry things again, are ye?"

William blinked with frozen features for a brief moment before eyeing the elder suspiciously. "How'd you know about that?" Alastair smiled and slapped his brother on the shoulder. All tension between the two nearly dissolved.

"There arnae secrets in this house, Davy," Alastair laughed. William smiled weakly. They were quiet for a few short seconds, where William coughed awkwardly and stared at the dust particles sluggishly drifting in the still air, and Alastair's right hand twitched beside the square bulging in his pocket.

"I'm not goin' to a poetry reading, Alas," he informed, offering a tone of sympathy and apologetic smile, which wavered against Alastair's perplexed stare. Dropping his shoulders guiltily, William watched as Alastair scrutinized the former's attitude with wariness. "Arthur put me in charge of the accounts while he's teachin'."

Alastair simply blinked. He stood in front of is brother expressionless, registering the emotion that came with this information. His tongue flicked out, licking the arch of his top lip, quickly, before he brought the bottom lip in to be bitten lightly. Letting go of his lip, he dropped a short sigh, smiled cynically, and leisurely shook his head. Slowly, his face grew scarlet. He stopped moving his head and opened his mouth to speak, only to find he there weren't words to go with his fury.

"But—wh—" Alastair sputtered angrily, instinctively clutching at his red locks. He huffed indignantly and settled for shouting: "But I'm the eldest!"

"You don't like paperwork anyway," William attempted to comfort him. He shrugged as if it were a lost cause. Alastair shook his head with a bitter smile. He let out a slow, heated laugh, which made William's shoulders drop.

"This is jist like that bastard!" Alastair huffed. He tossed his arms in the air before slamming them, folded, across his chest in an exaggerated motion. "That boggin' bastard! Didnae e'en think of me. Ne'er does! Dug his own grave, he did! Tha' eejit*!"

A muffled grumbling, stirred by the sudden shouting, hummed into the hall and rebounded off the chipping white paint, interrupting the squabble. The sound's origin seemed to be the dark bedroom at the end of the hall behind Alastair. The pair froze, registering what had made the noise. The oldest brother's green eyes glistened mischievously.

"Alastair. Now, don't do anything stupid," William warned fruitlessly. He watched Alastair spin on his heel smoothly until he was facing the door. "C'mon, you wouldn't have accepted the offer anyway," William nearly pleaded.

"I woulds hae spit it in his face!" Scotland declared, reaching for the brass knob. The door groaned in protest as the nation forced it open. He groped the wall to his left until he found dainty switch. Light overwhelmed the two men. The yellow fluorescents reflected off the green walls and oversized mirror on the far side of the bedroom, momentarily blinding the brothers.

Alastair blinked for a moment before grinning darkly. "Good morn', wee brother," he cooed in a menacing tone. A lump shifted under large, down blankets: the target. The Scottish man stalked up to the nearest side of the large bed, which dictated the small room. Standing in the middle of the room next to the immense mirror, Alastair cracked his knuckles and smirked. "Time tae get up, boy!"

William sighed knowingly, but not without a heavy look of worry. "Alastair," he cautioned, despite recognizing the inevitable, habitual outcome. Wales pressed his palm to his forehead and turned to the framed picture (one of Arthur and Winston Churchill shaking hands) on the wall beside him. He attempted to focus on the rare authentic smile plastered across his brother's face from many years ago. He, however, winced when he heard the blankets thrown off of the sleeping man.

"_T'es_ _fou_*?" a voice shouted. William spun to see Alastair standing over a mass of cream skin and blond hair.

His build was all wrong. The man lying in Arthur's bed was taller, with set shoulders sloping down into masculine arms. His chin was stronger, lined with stray stubble, and his bare chest (with a neat army of hair down his middle) was broader. Unlike Arthur, who typically slept curled into a tight ball and mumbled softly in his sleep, this man was sprawled across the mattress, shouting threats in foreign tongues while asleep. After the initial shock, Alastair flushed and regretted tearing the blanket of the man.

"Christ, Frankie! Where are yer pants?" he bellowed, turning away and throwing the cover back on him. William mashed his brows together at his reddening brother, who stared fixedly at his feet. He gradually walked to the bed. Alastair moved, without hesitation, out of the other's way.

The room was still for a moment before the face of Francis Bonnefoy emerged from under the bed sheet. His confused blue eyes gazed around the room, while he muttered in sleepy French: "_Je... sais... pas... exactement_.*" He was quiet for a moment before his eyes explored his surroundings. They brightened as they crossed the familiar faces of the British Isles.

"Ah, William _et_ Alastair," he purred the names in a heavy French accent. Sitting up, he allowed the sheets to fall off his bare chest, but still covering enough to maintain decency. A twinkle fell into azure eyes, matching the pearly teeth of a suggestive grin. "_Ça va?_*"

"Whit the bloody hell are ye doin' here?" Alastair demanded. He finally decided to glare at the man instead of the floor. Looking slightly relieved that Francis was no longer exposed, but upholding his glower, Alastair stabbed his right hand into his pocket and ripped out a box of cigarettes. Realizing that Arthur was not here, he tore one out of the package and shoved it his between his lips.

"_Hien_?" Francis quipped. He winced slightly and patted a hand to his head, but kept his composure. "Ah, _oui, Oui, oui, oui... Antonio et moi... nous faisions le f__ê__te parce que notre cher ami, _Arth_—_*"

"In English, you dobber," Alastair chided, patting his pockets down unsuccessfully. He frowned through his unlit cigarette. William, recognizing the familiar display, reached over to the side table, opened the wobbling drawer, grabbed a green plastic rectangle, and tossed it to his brother, silently. The door refused the shut initially. It required a fair amount of force for William to slam it shut tight. A small shattered from within the table went unnoticed.

Alastair nodded in gratitude and switched the lighter on under his mouth. The flame charred the white paper, emitting a thick stink of tobacco.

"_J'ai désolé_," Francis apologized, combing a hand through gentle, golden curls. "Antonio must 'ave left me 'ere after our little _rendezvous._"

"Oh wonderful, a hung-over Frenchman." William's mutter went unheard. He swayed on the back of his heels anxiously, with hands in his shallow pockets. His bottle green eyes wandered over to the open door longing. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. "I don't mean to be rude, but I don't really have the time f—"

"Who?" Alastair cut off his brother. Scotland, who clutched his white box of _Benson and Hedges' _possessively_,_ looked noticeably calmer through a cloud of smoke, despite his corrugated brows.

"Spain," William explained, glancing toward the door. He thrust his hands in his pockets, anticipating that he would be trapped in England's room for some time. "So Arthur's definitely not here, right?"

"Gads, Frankie. Yer with tha' bampot*?" Alastair's face twisted in disgust. He pinched his cigarette between two fingers and waved the vapors out of his face with it. The sweet smell filled the room. Francis laughed.

"_Non_, I am with no one." He rested his palm on his chin and lifted an eyebrow. "_Non_, I am with _everyone_." He broke into another chortle. Alastair rolled his green eyes. "_Pourquoi*_? You are jealous?"

"God, no," Alastair asserted. This time it was Francis' turn to roll his eyes. "Whit's there tae be jealous of? A pure bloody bad hangover from bein' pissed on a Sunday night?"

"_Mais, non!_* You are jealous that it is not _moi_ _entre vos jambes.*_" Francis winked. Alastair cracked his jaw irately and sucked on his cigarette. "_Oui?"_

"Ya jaked* bastard. Speak English or I'll beat yer head in," Alastair threatened, animatedly shaking his fist.

"_Ne flirt pas avec moi_," Francis instructed nonchalantly. He lounged back on the headrest and smirked. "_Arrive-toi ici. Tu en meurs d'envie_.*" He patted the mattress beside him.

"I dinnae know whit yer sayin' but—" William cleared his throat. Two pairs of eyes turned to him.

"We can all agree that Artie's not here, right?" Wales again attempted to regain the conversation or, at the very least, change the subject.

"Nae," Alastair confirmed, dropping the argument.

"_Son lit libre_," Francis agreed, sitting up once again.

William looked over France and studied his appearance with raised brows. He sighed heavily, seemed to remember something, and strolled over to his younger brother's dresser. He rifled through a few drawers before finding a pair of worn, gray sweatpants, and throwing them at the Frenchman. They hit him in the center of his chest and fell into his hands. "_Merci_."

After a short moment of revolted examination, Francis untangled the pants from themselves. He slid off the bed, revealing his _masculinity_ for the second time, much to the distress of the Kirkland brothers. Both of which focused on something else; Alastair on his cloudy breathe, William on his reflective shoes. After a brief fit of wrestling through headache and unsteady legs, Francis managed to position the clothing almost correctly on his body. He moaned dramatically, clutched his forehead, and plopped into a sitting pose onto the floor.

"All right," William clapped his hands together in conclusion. "Now that everyone is clothed and calm, I have an office to get to." He turned toward the door and started out.

"Git out ay here, ya bastard," Alastair said, half joking. He flicked some ash onto the floor and put the cigarette back into his mouth. He mumbled something in Gaelic, something about "Sasainn*" and turned to Francis.

"That boy tries tae hard," he said in English. Francis only squeezed his eyes shut in a halfhearted wince.

William stopped in the doorway and smiled toward his brother. "He that hath lost his credit is dead to the world.*"

"Ya, ya, Davy, quit blethering* and git out ay here," Alastair shook his head and tossed the cigarette but on the wooden floor and ripped a second one out of his pocket. The room reeked of smoke and tobacco, but only Francis seemed to mind. His face was steadily turning green.

They were quiet for a moment. Francis' fingers were glued to his temples, moving in soft circles in a vain attempt to rid himself of a migraine. Alastair relished the smoke that filled his lungs and, little by little, exhaled. William watched the smoke cloud his brother's sullen face. He longed for comforting words, but found none. He knew, all too well, of their little brother's ignorance and selfishness. Even though Alastair would never admit it, William could see right through the angry charade.

"Hey, Alas," Wales feebly attempted. Alastair turned his head, mid-puff, toward William. He exhaled into the empty air. With downcast eyes, William decided against awkward comfort. He smiled gingerly and raised his gaze to meet his brother's. "You know that my name hasn't been David for almost three hundred years."

Alastair smiled broadly, genuinely. "I know."

William nodded, smiled, and left. The room was filled with silence. Francis's cerulean eyes rose to scowl at Scotland. He bared his teeth and suppressed a groan.

"Let's get ye some coffee before yer head explodes."

...

**AN:**

*_ "Son Lit Libre et l'Ami Fran__ç__ais"_ **His Empty Bed and the French Friend, AKA The Chapter Where I Mention Body Hair One Too Many Times**

*****"_bairn_" **little child**

*****"_pure_" **this basically means "very"**

***** "_2 September 1993"_ **First off, European date because they are in England. Thank you to anyone who pointed out the mistake in the date and helping me fix it. At this point in the story, it is 1993. Then it will be 1994 by the end of the story. There. Fixed. Done. Let's leave it at that.**

***"** _Is_ _the_ _cat_ _deid_?"** "Is the cat dead?" Something people say when you're pants are too short. In America, we'd say "Where's the flood?"-maybe. **

*** **"_nae_" **no or not (mostly no)**

*** **"_arnae_" **are not or aren't**

*** **_"That boggin' bastard! Didnae e'en think of me. Ne'er does! Dug his own grave, he did! Tha' eejit!"_ **"That dirty bastard! Didn't even think of me! Never does! Dug his own gave, he did! That idiot!" **

*** **_"T'es fou?"_ "**Are you crazy?" For those of you who speak French, I'm using the extreme informal. I've only been taking French for three years so correct me if I'm wrong. **

***** "_Je... sais... pas... exactement_" **"I don't know exactly." Again to the French speakers, I'm using the informal so I dropped the "ne" in "ne...pas". **

*** **_"__Ça va?"_ **Kind of like "How are you?" or "All right?/OK?" It's a casual greeting. **

*****_ "Hien?...Ah, oui, Oui, oui, oui... Antonio et moi... nous faisions le f__ê__te parce que notre cher ami, Arth—" _"**Huh?... Ah, yes. Yes, yes, yes... Antonio and I... we had a party because our dear friend Arth—"**

*** **_"Gads...bampot"_ **an expression of disgust... ****an idiot, unhinged person**

***** "_Pourquoi?"_ "**Why?"**

*** "**_Mais, non!" _**But of course not!**

*** "**_moi_ _entre vos jambes" _**"...me between your legs" **

*****"_jaked_" **drunk/in a state of drunkenness **

*****___"Ne flirt pas avec moi...Arrive-toi ici. Tu en meurs d'envie._" **Don't flirt with me. Come here. You're dying to. **

*** **"_Sasainn_" **Scottish Gaelic for England**

*** "**_He that hath lost his credit is dead to the world." _** Quote from Welsh poet George Herbert. I like to think that Wales quotes Welsh authors, particularly poets, from time to time. He has a great love for poetry. He tries to write it often but never really thinks its any good, so he admires poets. This quote basically is saying : the man that you can't rely on/doesn't keep his promises is no use to the world. **

*** **_"blethering"_ talking a lot/complaining

**I have made a Tumblr account specifically for this account. It makes it easily to communicate with my readers as well as offer previews. Please, check it out: **Persephone-hunt . tumblr . com

**I apologize for the overdue update. This chapter did not want to be written and I was just so busy. Thank you for bearing with me. -Seph**


	6. Chapter 6: An Exceptionally Long Day

_Chapter Six: An Exceptionally Long Day_

"You fainted, Potter?" The drawling voice, drenched in disbelief, could be heard over the idle chatter of students. The threat of the dementor had worn off. People on all sides of Harry gossiped excitedly, while waiting to descend off the train. Most students laughed, talked, shouted, and complained. A group of nervous first years huddled together, listening to the false tales of the Weasley twins ("...the demontors are just _one_ of the tasks you'll face before you're sorted, right, George?" "Don't forget about the troll...") A particularly loud roar of laughter came from a group of Slytherins behind Harry. "You actually _fainted_, Potter?"

Harry threw his fists into his pockets of black robes that fell limply by his ankles. Green eyes remained glowering forward despite the mocking of his rival, Draco Malfoy, at the back of the crowd. The cackling laughter was hard to overlook.

"Ignore him," Hermione whispered through clenched teeth. Crookshanks purred, from her arms, in agreement. The creature's cool stare made shivers run down Harry's spine. "The pompous jerk doesn't understand. Dementors tend to have a stronger effect on people who've suffered great loss in their lives." She shook her bangs away from her eyes and upturned nose.

"Yeah, the greatest loss he's ever suffered is losing the House Cup," Ron comforted, with a freckled hand on Harry's shoulder. He stepped over a fourth year's outstretched leg to be beside his friend. The bespectacled girl grinned dumbly at him through strong lilac perfume and smooth curls. Hermione shot her a tense look before turning back to the faceless students filling the corridor before the exit.

"Besides," the redhead continued, ignoring the Hufflepuff's flirtatious look. He smirked and squeezed his best friend's shoulder lightly. "I heard Malfoy cried like a girl." Harry smiled weakly.

The multitude began moving slowly toward the entrance at an unsteady pace. Teenage feet shuffled under pressed robes toward the opening door. A tall seventh year with bulging eyes pushed through the crowd causing numerable shouts of protests, frightened pets, and fierce glares. The trio was barely distracted by the hurried student as he nearly knocked Crookshanks into Harry's chest.

"Well, Ronald," Hermione said, not quite patronizing. She turned her chin upward and, fighting an unnoticed smile, stared at him from the corner of her eyes. Ron gaped across Harry's face into Hermione's reddening expression. "As much as dislike your misogynistic attitude, I'll admit that it feels rather good to know that Malfoy isn't nearly as brave as he lets on."

"Mino-what?" Ron questioned with scarlet ears. Hermione turned her face toward the boys while failing to stop her smile. She broke into a jovial laugh, causing the yellow cat to scare and jump onto her feet. Ron allowed a confused smile to cross his features. He lifted his hand off Harry's shoulder and rubbed it on the back of his neck.

"It doesn't matter," Hermione assured him. "All that matters is that Malfoy was just as scared as everyone else, if not more."

Harry tried to join his friends' giggles and jokes, but his facial muscles were too tired to smile. His lungs were too exhausted to laugh. His eyes were too weary to dart between them. His ears were too fatigued to keep up with the conversation. Harry was drained.

"Hold on, Goyle. I need to make sure _Longbottom_ isn't lying," the arrogant voice, too loud to be talking privately, broke the duo's mirthful exchange and Harry's drowsy stupor. The three stepped off the Hogwarts Express, ending the seemingly endless exit, and quickly trudged toward the horseless carriages.

"Firs' years this way!" a booming voice announced over the crowd. The half-giant stood by the water's edge, his black, tangled beard glistening with water droplets. Dozens of rickety boats lined the lake's edge beside him. Rubeus Hagrid smiled down at Harry, Hermione, and Ron. His large hand waved in a clumsy hello. "All righ', you three?"

With the crowd pushing them toward the gleaming, white carriages and no time for a proper greeting, they returned the gesture and continued on their way. Silence fell upon the group as a mildly embarrassed Neville Longbottom, their clumsy classmate, and a shaken Ginny Weasley fell into step.

"How are you, Harry?" Ginny asked, barely audible. Her brown eyes focusing on the peddles beneath her shoes. Hermione threw her arm around the younger's shoulders and squeezed gently. Ginny's eyes gingerly found Hermione's, silently thanking.

"Everyone's doing just fine, Ginny," Hermione comforted in a tone that reminded Ginny of her mother. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah," she stammered. She pushed the tears off her cheeks and sighed heavily. "Just tired."

"I could use a nap, myself," Neville interjected, rubbing a large hand on the back of his neck. He glanced at Harry, who stared sullenly ahead, from the corner of his eyes. "We should probably find a coach before... before Malfoy catches up."

The party slogged off the platform toward the carriages. They piled onto an empty coach and pretended not to see Malfoy attempting to shove his way over to them. The blonde grabbed onto the bulging eyed seventh year, who was blushing at a girl with pink lips. The seventh year was not amused. Before the teen could grab Malfoy's collar, the horseless carriage drifted away from the crowd and towards the castle.

…...

Arthur Kirkland hopped off the Thestral driven carriage without the magical fervor he had expected to feel on Hogwarts campus. He stared down at the chocolate hunk in his pale hands, sighed, and tossed to the winged creature. It raised its leathery head to grab the food with skeletal teeth. The horse-like creature stomped a gray hoof and promptly spit the candy on the ground. It's white eyes, lacking of pupils, glinted at Arthur.

"Ugly, finicky creature," Arthur muttered. He grabbed his slim briefcase out of the carriage and allowed Merlin to leap onto his shoulder. His small face nuzzled into Arthur's neck, balancing on hidden feet. The nation gripped his case tightly and stomped over to the stone steps leading up to the great, wooden entrance.

"Shove off, Malfoy," a voice spat, attempting to sound intimidating through a childish pitch. Through knitted eyebrows, Arthur stopped and glared to his left. The trio from the train, among others, seemed to be in an intense stare-down with a smug, blonde Slytherin. Ronald Weasley, with crimson ears and an inflated chest, was virtually nose-to-nose with the blonde.

"What about you, Weasley?" The fair-haired boy looked down at Ronald with an expression of utter disgust. "Afraid the big, scary dementor'll get you too?"

Arthur winced and rubbed his forehead, only slightly upsetting Merlin. He cleared his throat loudly, but it went unnoticed by the increasing crowd. Students hurried over to the "battle scene" with loud whispers of "fight", "Weasley versus Malfoy", and "Harry Potter". Arthur watched the growing numbers with unease, internally debating. (_I can't just _let_ this happen. Well, boys do need to see their fair share of conflicts before becoming men. But they're only—what? Thirteen? And I doubt I could do anything through this excruciating headache anyway... Oh, bloody hell._) Arthur sighed and marched over to the sight. He elbowed his way to the center and stepped between the blond and the ginger.

"Is there a problem here?" Arthur managed to control the weariness plaguing his mind enough to sound authoritative. The purple bags under his eyes would have revealed his lack of gusto, if the children had not been so easily frightened of detention. The mob dispersed rapidly, leaving only the small cluster that started the argument.

The Slytherin mumbled a quick "no" before scampering off through the gigantic doorway. His posse followed closely behind. Arthur glanced at the averted eyes of the others before wordlessly stalking off behind the retreating crowd.

He barely managed to walk five steps before narrowly avoiding collision with a very serious witch. He mustered up the energy to smile apologetically. Merlin, mimicking Arthur's interior feelings, hissed at the woman. The cat leaped gracefully between the humans' feet, glaring and swishing his tail at the witch.

"Kirkland?" she asked crisply. Her wrinkled eyes looked over him, landing on his eyebrows for a second too long before dropping down to his tired eyes. He self-consciously smoothed his brows. Memories from Naval inspections flooded back to him.

"That would be me." He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and offered her his right. "Professor Arthur James Kirkland."

"Minerva McGonagall," She gave the hand a quick, firm shake. "Transfigurations teacher and head of Gryffindor House."

"A pleasure," Arthur smiled sarcastically. He started to step by her before McGonagall stopped him with a firm hand on his elbow. Green eyes blinked down at her smooth, manicured nails, travelled up the length of her dark sleeves, and narrowed at her distrustful expression. He opened his mouth to speak but didn't get the chance.

"We've met before," she informed. Her tone was definite, solid. She never broke eye contact. "Twelve years ago. In Surrey, on a little street called Privet Drive."

Arthur thought for a moment before clicking his tongue. His eyes warmed with awe. "You're the Animagus," he recalled. "I've always found that fascinating, you know?"

"It's a fascinating concept," her voice was stern. Her eyes were fixed on Arthur's, who almost felt as if he needed to salute. She was silent for a short moment, before probing him: "You haven't aged at all."

"I tend not to," Arthur glanced at the doorway, watching other students file in. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

McGonagall left her hand on his arm, while she examined his face. "Perhaps, you should come with me." The suggestion felt more like a command. "Excuse my bluntness, but you look like death."

Arthur sighed heavily and furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, I feel fine actually," he retorted. His drooping shoulders and pale skin told her otherwise.

The stern professor ignored the comment and turned to the crowd. She scanned the students before spotting someone. "Potter! Granger! I want to see you both!" Her unfaltering green eyes turned back to his stubborn green eyes. "It would be to our mutual benefit that you come with me."

"Mutual?" Arthur snorted. Before he had a chance to rant, three heads appeared by the elbow that McGonagall was attached to.

"Yes, Professor?" Hermione's hazel eyes glanced curiously at Arthur.

"I want to have a word with you in my office," McGonagall smiled, as she turned toward the doors. Ronald stood on her left looking hesitant. The stern-looking witch stared down at him. "Move along now, Weasley." He nodded slowly, glanced at Arthur, and rejoined the chattering crowd.

Without loosening her grip, she guided the trio up the stone steps and into the castle. They (Arthur, with strong reluctance) crossed the entrance hall, marched up a marble staircase, and down a long corridor.

The paintings lining the walls grinned down at the group. One, a flighty redheaded witch, giggled excitedly and scampered into her neighbors setting. She whispered in the other's ears, lifting up her dainty foot behind her head, and pointed toward them. Twirling in her Victorian dress, she waved at them. The other painting, a more abstract watercolor woman, covered her blushing face.

"Arthur Kirkland!" the redhead scolded playfully, hands on her acrylic hips. "You promised that I'd never catch you on the arm of another woman!"

"You're a painting, Diana!" Arthur called over McGonagall's shoulder. A small smile played at his lips as the group reached a polished door near the end of the hall.

"And you're a scoundrel!" Diana jeered, pouted dramatically.

Paying no mind to the outburst, the Head of Gryffindor lead the assembly into her office, a small, old-fashioned room with a large welcoming fireplace and a sizeable desk in the center. She released Arthur's arm, motioned for the three to sit, and sat behind the desk. Arthur crossed his arms and leaned against the wall beside the fireplace.

"Professor Lupin owled me to tell me that you were ill on the train, Potter," McGonagall explained.

"Oh, well," Harry started before being interrupted by a low squeak of an opening door. Arthur wasn't at all surprised to see a stout witch, dressed in a typical healer's uniform, come bustling in the room. McGonagall referred to her simply as 'Poppy'.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" she nearly sighed at the sight of the flushed boy, sitting stiffly in front of the fire. "Up to something dangerous again, I'll bet."

"I'd hardly count these dementors as his fault," Arthur mumbled just loud enough to be heard. The healer blinked at the nation as if seeing him for the first time. The crackling of the fire was the only sound for a fraught instant.

"Professor, this is our Matron and nurse in charge of the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey," McGonagall broke the cloud of unquietness. "And, Poppy, this is our new professor, Arthur Kirkland."

"History, I assume," Pomfrey turned her attention back to Harry, putting on hand on his wrist and the back of her other on his forehead. Arthur snorted. "Why, I thought you were a ghost, lurking over in that corner. Dementors'll do that to you, you know." After pursing her lips, she removed her hand off Harry's head, stared intently into his eyes, and continued. "The ghostly look, I mean. Not the lurking."

Dropping the wrist, she sighed. "All my years, I'd never thought once that I'd see one of those... _monsters_ around all these children. Bless their young souls."

Arthur clicked his tongue, rolled his eyes, and averted his attention to the room around them. It was altogether cozy; small, but very cozy. Not that size ever mattered to Arthur, for the most part. (He couldn't disregard the hundreds of years he spent not growing past 150 centimeters*.) The walls were lined with bookcases, filled with old, leather-bound volumes. The only painting was void of a subject, showing only rolling, green hills that vaguely reminded him of Scotland. It hung above the large fireplace next to Arthur.

"What do you suggest?" McGonagall asked, watching Pomfrey study the boy. "Bed rest? A night at the Hospital Wing?"

"I'm _fine!_" Harry panicked. He pushed Pomfrey's probing hands away and stared with begging eyes at McGonagall.

"He should at least have some chocolate," Pomfrey suggested.

"I've already had some," Harry explained. "Lu-Professor Lupin gave us _all_ some on the train." He gestured to the silent girl next to him. Hermione, who was nearly forgotten, blinked, concerned, at her friend. Unlike Arthur and Harry, Hermione had completely regained her composure after the attack. The light sunburn highlighted her nose and cheekbones, her hazel eyes were vibrant, and her hands were steady. A slight twinge of jealousy hit Arthur.*

Pomfrey raised an eyebrow and murmured something about "knowing their remedies".

"Well, since you _refuse _bed rest, there isn't anything I can do for you." The Healer sighed and turned to Arthur. "And you look about ready to topple. Have a seat." Arthur raised a thick brow. But, before he could protest, Pomfrey grabbed his shoulders and guided him to it. "My, my, you look even worse in the light."

"I can assure you, _Madam_, I feel perfectly well," the nation lied. He was increasingly tired and overly sarcastic. The world was nothing but blackness to him at the present and he wished to drown it out with sleep. Or a nice Martini. Or, perhaps, both.

Pomfrey narrowed her eyes, clenched her jaw, and continued her examination. Remaining completely still, Arthur unwillingly allowed her to pinch, prod, feel, and stare at him.

"Rest. You need plenty of rest," Pomfrey concluded, standing upright and taking a hand off Arthur's clammy forehead. "I can't allow you to go anywhere but straight to the Hospital Wing."

"Well, I plan on _attending_ the feast," Arthur retorted. He folded his arms and glared defiantly at the nurse. "Or what's left of it, anyway. Having a bloody wonderful glass of pumpkin juice, a jar of rum as large as my head, and a nice sleep. Then I'll wake up to teach class in the afternoon. I'm not spending my first night at Hogwarts in _fifty-three bloody years on_ _bed rest_."

Pomfrey inhaled furiously, puffing out her chest, readying herself for the rant of the century. However, she had not even opened her mouth before McGonagall interjected.

"Professor Kirkland," She scolded, standing up from her chair. "Hostility such as this will not be tolerated at Hogwarts. _Colleagues_ will treat each other as such. Now, I understand that you've had a hard night but this is unacceptable. And, Poppy," her tone softened significantly. "Professor Kirkland isn't one of your students. If he wishes to endanger his well being and attend the feast, then he is within his right to do so."

The two glared at each other for a long moment before Pomfrey spoke.

"No rum. Plenty of protein. And a large helping of chocolate cream pie." She fished around in her pockets and pulled out a small, violet vial. Handing it to Arthur, she continued: "Eat two of those when that migraine, that's bound to appear from all your anger, hits. It won't help much but it's the best I can do since you refuse to come to the Hospital Wing." Arthur nodded in gratitude and shoved the container into his trousers.

"Kirkland, Potter, you may leave," McGonagall allowed, ignoring "Poppy", who exhaled loudly. She smiled at Hermione, who nervously returned the expression. "I need to have a word with Miss Granger about her course schedule."

"Wonderful," Arthur muttered, standing up from the chair. Pretending to not notice how unbalanced and shaky he was, he trekked out of the room, which suddenly seemed so large. The light from the outside hall nearly blinded him. The former empire began to stumble, before remembering that he had been a _bloody_ _empire_, and pulled himself up again.

...

Harry Potter wished that the meeting with Madam Pomfrey had healed him, however, that was definitely not the case. His head currently owned a subtle ache as well as a mess of memories and wails of the unknown woman. His stomach growled. That morning, a thousand years ago, he had only eaten a slice of burnt toast for breakfast. The chocolate on the train only kindled his hunger. The excessive excitement forced Harry to forget about lunch. If he had one ultimate regret, other than fainting... or whatever that was, about today is would be not eating more at the Dursleys.

An overwhelming sense of relief came over him as he finally left McGonagall's office, without the retribution of "bed rest". Despite his self-pitying mood, he couldn't help but to feel bad for Kirkland. The man had clearly been out of the wizarding world for some time and was welcomed back by a dementor. Harry watched the man step out of McGonagall's office, nearly trip over his own feet. The boy noted that the professor wore shoes like Uncle Vernon wore to his office on days where he expected to "finally get that big promotion the boss has been hinting at". Kirkland still wore Muggle clothing. He hadn't even remembered to change on the train. Harry couldn't help from wondering what kind of trauma he had gone through to have suffered so much. Even Harry, whose parents were murdered in cold blood by the most evil wizard in the world, had not had a reaction as severe as Kirkland.

_I wonder if he fainted.. or whatever... too_, the thought passed through Harry's mind, as he watched Kirkland catch himself on the wall and inhale violently. The boy was unsure on whether or not to walk with Kirkland or to go on ahead.

"Er, Professor?" Harry asked gingerly. The teacher leaned against the wall, heavily. Harry had to agree with Madam Pomfrey, Kirkland looked unmistakably like a ghost, a very solid ghost. A specter that wobbled, flatfooted, on the ground, looking thoroughly determined to act alive. "Do you want, er, some help?"

"Potter," he sighed. His green eyes lifted and glared into Harry's. The younger's breath hitched in awe. As soon as the man's eyes hit his, Harry could see blood. Around the pupil of those piercingly moss eyes was a ring of blood red. It leaked into the green, so subtly that, under normal circumstances, it would have been invisible. The bold color sent a spew of detached emotions into Harry: agony, war, jealousy, rage, passion, desire, vigor, love. As soon as the shot through him, the words were gone, leaving only a shadow of turmoil in the man's green eyes.

"What happened to you?" Harry found that his lips had moved on their own, echoing the question plaguing his mind.

"You must understand that I will be fine," he continued, seeming not to hear Harry. "Going to the Hospital Wing would be a waste of everyone's time. The memories will fade soon enough but the taunting would last a century." As he continued, Kirkland seemed to care less about speaking to Harry and more about mumbling to himself. "There are more important things at hand, anyway."

Harry only stared, not comprehending anything that Kirkland just "explained" to him.

"Sometimes... sometimes rudeness is necessary. Yes, _essential_." Kirkland steadied himself and raised his chin. The red in his eyes was gone as well as the uneasiness surrounding Kirkland. If it weren't for the tremor in his hand as he smoothed his vest, pasty skin, and dark rings under his eyes, Harry would have never believed that Kirkland was an utter mess a moment ago. The intensity in his stare left no trace, but he continued to mumble nearly incomprehensibly to himself. "Yes, now let's eat." He concluded and marched down the corridor, toward the Great Hall.

"What?" Harry stood, open mouthed, in front of McGonagall's office. He listened to the man ramble ("They'll understand in the morning... as soon as they know about Alastair...and the frog... and that _git_... no, no, that's irrelevant...") as he walked away from Harry.

"There's something off about him," Hermione commented as she stepped next to Harry. She adjusted the front of her robes, fumbling with something underneath. "It's clear that he's older than he appears, but there's something else. Something bigger."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, stilling gawking after Kirkland as he stumbled down the marble staircase.

"Did he say anything else funny while I was talking to Professor McGonagall?"

"Just about everything he says is funny."

...

"Zabell, Salvador!" A portly witch stood in front of the Great Hall, wearing a bored frown and an unusually tall hat. One hip dropped slightly and her knee locked, causing her to stand as if she were an impatient teenager listening to her parents' lecture. A yellowing parchment covered much of her sour face, as she lifted a frail-looking hat above the lonely stool beside her. In the midst of her echo, a timid, freckled boy, with jet black hair and a petite frame, made his way over to the chair. He stumbled slightly, caused sporadic giggles, before blushing fiercely and scampering the rest of the way to the chair.

Arthur chose this moment to enter the Great Hall. Unsure if a back entrance even existed, he thrust open the main doors to the dinning area. All eyes were immediately glued to the strange man in Muggle clothing, weaving around tables and storming up to the staff table. The room was silent. Even the bored witch's eyes alighted with a fragment of dismal curiosity. Arthur made a point of ignoring the lingering glances as he chose an empty seat. The room was still for a moment before Albus Dumbledore, with a cryptic twinkle behind his spectacles, cleared his throat. In response, the old hat fell onto the boy-Salvador Zabell's-head.

A hidden spark livened the hat. Its folds and wrinkles stirred into the faint image of a face. It twitched excitedly on the boys head before exploding into a raspy yelp: "Hufflepuff!" The table farthest from him erupted into applause. It only took a short moment for Arthur to realize the Sorting Hat had finished its job. In his realization that he had missed the ceremony, Arthur hardly noticed two third year students duck their heads, as they entered the Hall, and scurry to the Gryffindor table.

To Arthur's far left, at the center of the staff table, the headmaster stood. The murmur through the Great Hall was instantly silenced. The headmaster smiled and pushed his half-spherical glasses up his very crooked nose.

"Welcome," Albus Dumbledore's voice boomed through the large room. He enthusiastically opened his arms to the student body. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! I have a few announcements to make, one being very serious, and I think it best to get it out of the way before you become befuddled by our excellent feast."

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur watched McGonagall take her seat next to Albus, leaving him in perplexed curiosity.

Albus quickly glanced toward Arthur, a twinkle resting in his blue eyes. He cleared his throat and continued: "I have been made aware that certain persons on the Hogwarts Express were welcomed by our _guests_. For those with your heads in the sand, Hogwarts is presently playing host to some dementors of Azkaban. They flood our campus on official Ministry of Magic business and it is important for us to remember their job. They are not trained to show empathy, sympathy, or mercy. They cannot be fooled by charms, tricks, or, even, invisibility cloaks."

There was an out of place edginess to his words, as if it were a struggle to present the information in a pleasant manner. His voice slowed to a careful warning: "It is imperative that you do not give them any reason to think you the enemy." Arthur shuddered. His disapproving eyes scanned the room, back straightened with utmost respect for the current speaker.

"On a happier note," Albus announced gleeful, cutting through the tenseness as easily as if it were butter. His silver beard shimmered in the candlelight. "We will have three new professors joining us this year. First, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Lupin."

The disheveled man beside Arthur stood up and gave a little wave. The applause was scattered, but was heard the loudest from a certain group of Gryffindors. Arthur clapped along politely. He fought back a sigh.

With a quick glance down the staff table, Arthur noticed the Potions Master glare. Snape glowered at Lupin with utter loathing, which Arthur found all too familiar.

"Second," Albus continued. Lupin replaced himself in his seat. "Along with a new teacher, Hogwarts welcomes a new course: History of Muggles. As you have been informed in your start of school letter, this course is required for second, third, fourth, and fifth years. Sixth and seventh years have the option to sign up, if they please."

A loud groan rang throughout the hall, heard loudest by the Slytherin table. Arthur scoffed.

"Teaching our new course," Albus promptly ignored this outburst. "Will be our new teacher, Professor Kirkland."

Arthur stood up, to the unenthusiastic clapping, and bowed. He attempted to smile at the students, but suspected it looked more like a sneer. He quickly rejoined his colleagues in their seats and placed his head down on his hand, thinking rather dramatically to himself: _O, woe is me to have seen what I have seen and see what I see._*

"And, finally, well, I am sorry to tell you that Professor Kettleburn, our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, retired at the end of the year in order to spend more time with his remaining limbs." The solemnness implied in Albus' words were not present in his tone. "However, I am delighted to inform you that his replacement will be our very own gameskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid."

The Hall exploded with cheers, loudest being from the Gryffindor table. Arthur's head shot up to see a very tearful, very big, and very hairy man standing next to Lupin. The man, Rubeus Hagrid, sat back down and dried his tears on the tablecloth. His massive tangle of black beard was almost as large as the jumble of long, frizzy curls cascading from his head. He made Lupin took tidy and Arthur look immaculate.

Once the praise died down, Albus beamed over the students. He reviewed each table, enjoying the gleeful atmosphere. Reciting through a smile, Albus explained the basic rules of Hogwarts and precisely what a particular "Mr. Filch" was concerned about.

Finally, he spread his arms wide and declared: "Let the feast begin!" Magically every golden dish spilled over with numerous foods and pitchers filled to the brim with drink. Amazed gasps from first year student simultaneously echoed against the walls.

A roasted, stuffed duck gleamed in front of Arthur. Its toasted brown skin, clearly well-seasoned, caused the nation to salivate. Momentarily forgetting his headache, Arthur helped himself to a large serving of duck and poured his goblet full of a foreign orange liquid.

"Feeling better?" Lupin asked, watching Arthur shovel a large chunk of food into his mouth. His laughing brown eyes almost distracted Arthur from the long scar stretching across his face from chin to left ear.

After swallowing, Arthur replied: "I'd be even better with a cup of tea... or a bottle of rum." Lupin laughed heartily.

Arthur accepted it as a joke with a weak smile. "I've never been good with dementors," he explained, nibbling on a roll. "They bring back too many painful memories." He bit into the bread, chewing slowly, relishing the bland taste. "I have so much to be miserable about that it's quite easy for them to get to me." Arthur dropped his eyes to the plate in front of him. He swallowed another bite of duck along with the lump rising in his throat. He took a deep breath, before looking back to Lupin. "Thank god, you were there. I couldn't even cast a bloody patronus..."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Lupin awkwardly patted the man's shoulder. Arthur decided that he must have looked glummer than he thought and contemplated the consequences of going to bed early.

The two ate in silence until dinner was replaced by a bounty of pies, cakes, candies, and pastries. Lupin leaned over and whispered nonchalantly: "I'd recommend the chocolate cream pie." and slapped a hefty helping onto Arthur's plate. Arthur mumbled a thank you.

After the food was devoured and the drink was gone, Dumbledore announced that it was time for bed. The students steadily cleared out, followed by most of the teachers. A few lingered for light conversation here and there. Arthur leaned back in his chair, enjoying the growing peace.

"I'll see you around, Professor Kirkland," Lupin said, patting Arthur goodbye.

"Arthur, please," He grinned tiredly up at his colleague. Lupin shook his head.

"Remus," he introduced himself with a handshake, which Arthur happily participated in. "I'll see you at breakfast, Arthur."

"G'night, Remus." Remus followed the students out of the Great Hall. Arthur sighed and marveled at the ceiling above. Dark clouds continued to tumble and turn. An occasional flash of lightning shot across the sky. Thunderstorms were certain to plague the night, yet Arthur felt better. Perhaps it was the pie.

"Hagrid!" The youthful voice pierced through his tranquillity, throwing him back into a monstrous headache. He plunged his hand into the pocket of his trousers. Suddenly realizing that he'd forgotten to change into wizarding robes, he clenched his jaw in internal frustration and yanked out a small purple vial.

Three familiar faces bobbed up from the other side of the table, beaming at the half-giant. Each wore dark, billowing robes with scarlet and gold striped ties. Hermione's was the only one that looked neat and professional. Harry's necktie was clumsily thrown on and Ron's wasn't even tied. It dangled loosely over his shoulders on the front of his robes.

Hagrid grinned tearily back at the students. He took a filthy handkerchief from somewhere under his beard and dabbed his eyes.

"Congratulations, Hagrid!" Hermione sang. She stole a glance at Arthur, furrowed her brows very subtly, and blushed.

"Yeah!" Ron heartily agreed. Noticing Hermione's blush, he forced his tone to be deeper. "You're the best person for the job."

"Hagrid, that's wonderful," Harry grinned up into the giant mass of hair.

"Can' believe it," Hagrid sniffed. He reached a huge hand onto Harry's head, patting him. "Great man, Dumbledore." Hagrid blew into his napkin. "Came straight down to me hut when Kettleburn said he'd had enough." He, now, burst into full on hysterics, burying his face in his napkin. "What I always wanted."

Ron opened his mouth to continued, but Professor McGonagall marched down the table to shoo the children away. They reluctantly said their goodbyes to Hagrid and turned to leave, talking amongst themselves.

As if on impulse, Hermione stopped and half-turned toward Arthur. "Goodnight, Professor Kirkland," she added curtly. Arthur nodded in reply, only saying: "Miss Granger." A light smile graced her lips as she turned to exit with her friends.

McGonagall turned to the two men and nodded politely, before rushing the last of the students into the corridor.

Arthur watched them depart before dumping the vial into his mouth. He chewed on about five of the items that Pomfrey gave him, scrunching his nose at the sour flavor. The faint scent of lavender and mint misleadingly filled his nostrils.

Finally, he stood up and stretched. He pulled out his briefcase from under his chair, readying himself to leave. Before he had a chance to move, Hagrid unburied his face and wiped his eyes.

"Don' think I don' remember you," Hagrid sniffled. He dried his eyes on the now damp handkerchief.

"Oh, bother," Arthur mumbled, swallowing the foul medicine. He looked into the giant's face with indifferent eyes.

"Yeh were there on the day 'Arry defeat'd You-Know-'Oo," Hagrid explained. He stared gravely into the nation's eyes. "Yer a good man. Yeh 'ave to be. Helping 'Arry get to his on'y family... Any friend o' Dumbledore's a friend o' mine." Hagrid pulled the small, thin nation into a hug, knocking the wind out of him. He released the bewildered man and held out his enormous hand. "Come by me hut anytime. We'll share a cuppa tea."

Arthur's hand was crushed in Hagrid's. Tears formed in the half-giant's eyes, causing him to blubber a goodbye into his napkin. He, then, hurried off to the exit, leaving Arthur alone in the Great Hall.

"This has been an exceptionally long day," he mumbled to his watch, which read precisely 9:04pm. The candles around him began to flicker out before he started toward the large doors.

His memory had not failed him as he found his way around extensive halls and up shifting staircases. He passed a painting of a heavy-set woman in a lavish pink dress, turning her nose up to him. The woman stood out to Arthur, but, through his exhaustion and diminishing headache, he couldn't quite imagine why.

Finally, at the end of the hall, he found his quarters.

...

***** _150 centimeters_ **A little less than 5 feet tall. **

*_A slight twinge of jealousy hit Arthur._ **He's jealous of how easy it is for someone as young and innocent as Hermione to recover from something like a dementor. **

*****_O, woe is me to have seen what I have seen and see what I see._** This is from Shakespeare's Hamlet. Ophelia says this about how Hamlet has changed, like "I am the most miserable because I've seen who Hamlet was before and now I see him like this". Here, it has somewhat of a dual meaning. One being that he just relived terrible experiences because of the dementors. Two being that he had seen Hogwarts before and now it is different. The reaction to the Muggle course shows the prejudiced that the students have been raised into. Arthur mentally connects this to how Hogwarts was the last visit, significantly less prejudiced. It's England's people against England's people, which is hard for Arthur to deal with. Also, Arthur thinks this because he's an over dramatic baby when he's grumpy. **

**One long chapter to make up for my sporadic updates. I'm just so busy all the time with school, work, family, and I just got an internship so my life is about to get even more hectic. And my computer decided that it can't save anything so I'm doing everything on google docs now. I'm sorry I've been so late. And I guess a lot of you didn't like the last chapter? I was trying to bring Scotland and France into the story. Nothing majorly significant occurred, but nothing is irrelevant (for the most part). And (I'm probably going to regret drawing attention to this) I realize the time line suddenly makes no sense. The last chapter takes place the day after this one. I'll probably try and clarify that when the first day of classes comes. I was just trying to break up the drama and slow down the pace. (I had originally written the first six chapters before posting anything, only to realize that they were absolutely horrid and poorly paced.)**

**Can I just mention Salvador Zabell? I mean, what a name! Also, lots of random background characters.**

**ALSO some parts of this I wrote back when I originally wrote the chapter with the book right next to me. I'm not sure how close that dialogue is to J K Rowling's words. That being said, if they are not my words then they belong to her.**


	7. Chapter 7: What the Snake Knows

**AN: Hey, I'm back and have this recap to keep you updated. Sorry. **

_**Previously on Not Nearly As Young**_

_**Chapter one: Arthur Kirkland accepts teaching job from Dumbledore for a Muggle History Class. Snape is pretty rude and Arthur is nervous about protecting Harry against Sirius Black. He knows something's off with the ministry but doesn't exactly know what.**_

_**Chapter two: Arthur meets with Wills (Wales) in a coffee shop. It's raining and they argue. Wills thinks Hogwarts is a bad idea, but Arthur doesn't care. He's sick of the Kirklands and being a nation. He's also rude to waitresses.**_

_**Chapter three: Hermione's worried about her friends and about everything in general, in France. She's still a bit freaked about being Petrified. She sees an owl and gets a letter from a different owl and worries about Harry after he blew up Aunt Marge.**_

_**Chapter four: Harry, the Weasleys, and Hermione get on the Hogwarts Express in Platform 9 ¾. Ron and Hermione argue about Crookshanks. They meet sleeping Lupin, Merlin the cat, and their new professor, Arthur Kirkland. They all smell him and are a bit freaked out. A Dementor comes and Harry faints.**_

_**Chapter five: Back in London, Wales is in charge and Scotland is angry about it. Alastair (Scotland) calls William, Davy, even though his name changed 300 years ago. They're all kind of put off by Arthur, even though he left the day before. France sleeps naked in Arthur's bed after a drunken celebration with Spain the night before. It's unclear exactly how he got there. There's a hint of Spain/France and Scotland/France. And Wills goes to work and Alas entertains Francis (Frankie).**_

_**Chapter six: Arthur's exhausted and sees Thestrals. Malfoy makes fun of Harry, but Arthur stops all shenanigans. Minerva take Harry and Arthur for medical help, which both refuse. Arthur's rude to everyone. Hermione gets a timeturner. Hagrid, Kirkland, and Lupin are announced as teachers. Lupin and Arthur become friends, as well as Arthur and Hagrid. Arthur quotes Hamlet and used to be really short, and the kids congratulate Hagrid. FYI he's not that short now, but used to be for a really long time. **_

**Here, have this HP focused chapter.**

…**..**

_Chapter Seven: What the Snake Knows_

The thick sent of mold and death hung stale in the air of the dark, windowless room. The only light came from a swaying chandelier, flicking dully above the heads of forty cloaked men and women. They stood compactly around a long table, stained with violent blood. Their sweating brows bent in fear. Each of their hands twitched anxiously; all except one. A women with wild darting eyes and long, dirty curls jutting out from beneath her hood stood by the head of the table, admiring her work, which dangled from the framed painting above the mantle at the head of the table. Blood dripped from its bare, twisted toes. She grinned and wiped a dot of red off her forehead.

Fear and awe filled the hearts of the rest, as the waited for their leader. The room was filled with silent regret.

Someone swallowed audibly. All eyes turned to Sigmund Tugwoode, whose Adam's apple bobbed desperately along the lines of his throat. His eyes were wide with fear, staring at the women who had not removed her gaze from her swinging masterpiece. Severus Snape's narrowed his eyes at the man standing beside him, whose gaze begged wordlessly at anyone. Snape scoffed. One word shot through his mind: _coward_.

Snape forced himself to look around the room. He forced every detail of his setting into his mind, sketching an imaginary map for later. At the head of the table, was a throne. It smelled of mildew and raw metal, with visible damp, burgundy stains on the white upholstery. The table itself was split and crooked. It's splintered cracks rippled from an askew epicenter. Burgundy splotches splattered the rest of the room, mirroring the ruins of the once-grand table setting. Just about everything was wrecked. Walls had gaping holes in them, revealing plywood and the pristine kitchen on the opposite side. The door hung on its hinges, barely grasping onto the tattered wall of which it belonged. Shelves and paintings had been thrown around wildly, as if in a sadistic tornado.

Above the throne was a painting, slashed diagonally through the subject's face, of a regal looking man, with beady eyes and enormous scepter. The remnants of the subject's face flickered past the chandelier's light, still grinning unmoving, as it always had been. Finally, Snape forced himself to focus on the woman's masterpiece. It swung lazily in front of the portrait, alongside the light source. The corpse wore a Muggle's white suit, which was not covered in the same burgundy that was all over the dining room. He, for the body had been of a Belgium Muggle political figure, was hanged brutally by his ears. One arm swayed innocently by his ankles; the other was gone completely, hacked off indolently by a bloody curse. His eye lids and mouth were sewn shut with Muggle thread: a symbol of his blood status. Snape studied the limp body in detail, before allowing his eyes to drop to the unlit fireplace below. Sooty footprints scattered across the floor.

_Thirteen years_. The words bounded through Snape's mind. It had been thirteen years since any of them at seen their leader. Thirteen years since the half-blood hanging from the ceiling had heard about his former vocation. Thirteen years since the woman had heard the voice of her master in her dreams. Thirteen years since their faded tattoos had burned.

(He had been sitting in his office, admiring the peculiar bubbling of a frothy Bulbous Blots Remedy. The darkness of the dungeon contradicted the mid morning sun outside in Hogwarts grounds. A bored eyebrow rose when his door creaked open. Filtch's car poked its head into Snape's office before disappearing again.

He clucked his tongue, in an attempt to catch her attention, but she was busy. Her spotted brown tail swung idly above her thin body. Mrs. Norris trotted up the stairs, looking for her target. A sigh escaped Snape's lips, as he stood up from behind the large, gold cauldron. His black robes billowed around him as he took three deliberate steps before a faint stinging irritated his forearm. Snape stared awestruck at his covered arm.

"But…" His voice attempted to object, as if it could stop the burning on his arm. The cauldron behind him spilled over, allowing a purple mixture to soak his desk and flow onto the floor. It sizzled angriliy as it splashed on the wood, but Snape took no notice. Instead, he ripped back his sleeve, to reveal an inked snake wiggling along his arm. Lips tightened into a thin line. It was time. He was needed.)

The air was heavy with controlled breathing. The woman began to hum an old children's song, her foot tapping along with the tune. All eyes avoided her wandering gaze, until she decided to re-focus on the gently swinging corpse above her head. She allowed the blood to drip onto her cheek without complaint. A light smile graced her features. Snape figured she would have been very pretty in any other circumstance. Everyone else seemed to be thinking something else.

No one knew what to expect. Some, like Snape, had already been given orders disguised and obscured, but orders nonetheless. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was an opportunity to the Dark Lord and Snape had a way in. Some days, when a black owl, with grey beady eyes studied him, knocked relentlessly on his bedroom door, with a neat scroll tied to its leg, Snape wondered who was really giving orders. But when he was read the four letters inscribed on each scroll and bring them to his true loyalty in mid-morning staff meetings, his doubts would be crushed. Orders to follow orders were always followed.

Despite thirteen years of nothing but masked demands, every single wizard or witch knew He was back. It was evident in their shaking fingers and dry, swollen throats. Each was waiting, waiting for anything.

There had been rumors, of course. Some even said that the former professor Quirell, nervous, stuttering buffoon he was, had been involved, though Snape was unsure. He heard the boy's story and Dumbledore's too, but did he believe it? There was no clear answer. The Stone seemed so petty for the Dark Lord. It's properties only allowed the living more life. What could it do for the dead?

The thoughts of the death eaters echoed Snape's, but not a soul would voice them. Not even the brave women in the front, with her sly smile and earnest eyes. She would only enjoy her past glory and the agony of the dead man. She constantly lived in the past, not bothering with what His return might bring. Snape hardly noticed her humming fade and her head cocking to the side.

A sliver of light broke through the room. Snape's head snapped in the direction of the opening door, which shrieked violently against the floor. All eyes turned to the silhouette pushing the ruined door out of his way. His face hidden by folds of black fabric, but Snape could feel his mousey eyes flick across his face. He carried something long and unmoving. Its tail dragged lifelessly along the floor

The woman grinned wickedly. Tugwoode gasped, his hands shaking by his sides. Snape's eyes bore holes into the coward's back. Lips pulled back into a sneer under his hooked nose, before returned his gaze back to the new arrival. The man in the doorway held a long, green snake. Its tail flopped lazily onto the ground, eyes closed in placid patience. The man placed the Dark Lord's snake onto the wobbling table. She slithered to the center, hissing with her flickering tongue, and coiled into long spiral. Eyes still closed she opened her mouth, revealing jagged teeth.

A voice sounded. _Loyal Followers,_ the voice rasped. Tugwoode whimpered with recognition. The snake's head swayed serenely in a rhythmic motion. It took a moment for Snape to realize that the voice was coming from the gaping mouth of the snake. _You are what is left of my following. You are all but my unfortunate minions who reside in Azkaban. _

The room was silent. The chandelier slowed almost to a halt, properly illuminating the snake's features. Nagini's mouth seemed to move faintly with each word, as if she were the one speaking. Her scales shimmered in the candlelight viperously as she danced gracefully to an unheard tune.

All eyes zeroed in on the snake's mouth. Someone coughed loudly. A hacking noise, which shook nervously, caused the snake's head to whip to face the direction. It stilled, facing the frightened man. Tugwoode's eyes widened and his face went green.

_Crouch!_ the Dark Lord's voice commanded. The cloaked man who had carried the snake kneeled, bowing his head humbly to his master.

"Yes m'lord," he answered, eyes downcast. The snake's head did not move, but its open mouth curled upward slightly, mimicking a smile. Tugwoode froze. _Kill the coward_.

Before the voice even finished its sentence, a flash of green light erupted in the room. A loud crash and Tugwoode was on the ground. A gasp like a dying fish. Silence.

"Yes, m'lord," Crouch repeated and returned to his kneeling position. "Anything m'lord."

The room stayed unnervingly still, before the snake's small head swayed again to an unheard tune.

_Loyal Followers, _the raspy voiced continued. _By this time next year, I will be stronger and more powerful than I was ever before. We will rise once again, to purify the magical race. We are the evolved and we will, as nature intended, destroy the weaker race. By this time next year, we will be feared again. We will be united under the State of Voldemort. _

Snape's eyes were fixed on the snake as he took in His words. Each line, he repeated in his head, ingraining them into his memory. There was a plan, Snape knew that much.

_You each have a task,_ the voice continued. _Severus?_

"Yes, my lord?" Snape's voice was even and steady, his eyes fixed on His words.

_Tell me about Hogwarts. _

"There's been talk of The Triwizard Tournament returning next y—" Snape's cold tone was interrupted.

_Triwizard Tournament?_ The voice was filled with dismal amusement, tinged with annoyance. _Barty, you're influence is growing, hmm?_

Snape's brows furrowed, as his thoughts attempted to connect. He ran his fingers across the familiar texture of the sides of his robes, concentrating on his mission at hand.

"It appears so, m'lord," Crouch was still kneeling beside the table. His head bowed close to the ground as if to stiff the aging tiles. His knees wobbled with his body weight slightly but he did not move. "I did not know, m'lord. Forgive me."

_I will forgive you this once, Crouch, but do not mistake me for being merciful. _The Dark Lord's voice sounded impatient and irritated. Crouch lifted his face slightly to make eye contact with Snape. His glare was full of disgust, hate, and surprised distrust. _I trust you will be more thorough in your future reports._

"Of course, m'lord."

_Continue, my dear Severus._ The sweetness was covered with anger and sarcasm.

"Of course, my lord," Snape repeated the lines of the scolded Crouch, before straightening himself and looking directly into the closed eyes of the snake. "The school year has been going as usual, although the new additions to the staff have made my job harder. Remus Lupin—"

_Yes, the wolf._ Voldemort mused.

"Yes, my lord." Snape acknowledged with a curt nod. "He's become somewhat of a problem. He's allied himself with the Muggle history teacher. Their intentions remain unclear. Lupin is often discussing things with the headmaster." Snape's tongue flicked across his top lips, as his eyes shifted away momentarily. The rehearsed line bounded back into his mind, and awkwardly tumbled from his mouth. "Things in secret."

The snake hissed lightly, background noise to the tisking of the Dark Lord. _And this Mudblood teacher…_ His voice hitched, waiting for an explanation.

"He's strange," Snape attempted at an explanation. His lip quivered slightly. "Like he's disconnected with magic and in sync with it, simultaneously."

_His name is Kirkland, yes?_

One of Snape's eyebrows lifted in honest curiosity. "Yes, Sir Arthur James Kirkland of London."

_Sir Arthur James Kirkland of London_, the voice repeated. _Malfoy, see what you can do._

"Yes, my lord," the deep, proud baritone of Lucius Malfoy agreed, with a subtle bow. His long, ash blond locks dangled outside his cloak.

_Sir Arthur James Kirkland of London,_ He repeated. The room was silent. _Severus._

"Yes, my lord?" Snape hardened his face. He could feel the eyes of the others locked on him, watching his unchanging expression.

_Your focus has changed_. The snake's head wilted slightly, as if tired. Its mouth slowly closed, hiding venomous teeth. The imaginary sound was gone. Nagini, the snake, slowly rested her head on top of her coiled skin. The room was silent, as Barty Crouch Junior, stood from his kneeling position and slid his arms under the large snake. His glare landed on Snape, as he walked from the room. Snape's eyebrows rose and he committed this moment to memory.

…

**Updates will probably continue to be irregular, but I'm back? Thanks for everyone who reviewed, followed, and favorited! If you have any questions, issues, or comments, please leave them in reviews, and be signed in so I can reply maybe(?).**

**So the story continues!**

**-Seph **


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